Holy Water from Knock
I fill the bottle
unchurched, bubbling,
who’s to say
isn’t this how
isn’t this the way
not yet empty
of Irish blessing
with water from the tap,
churning wellspring water,
that plunges madly,
yearningly, into union
with the dregs of holiness
the infusion’s profane,
the sanctity diminished?
consider the tale
of the magic pitcher
rewarding kindness
with drink that has no end,
the water of the wedding feast
replenished into wine,
the slip of Eucharist
rooting in the heart
sourdough works,
its effervescence
leavening the sullen lump
to leavity?
grace works?