The rooms were full of relics,
ornate boxes and vessels for holding remnants
of the saints. Shoulder bones
and teeth, tunics and corners of burial shrouds.
The people believed that if you saw or
were touched by something that had once been
part of the holy, you could be healed and holy, too.
One box was my favorite. It was filled with
sacred objects, treasures of heaven. At the top
of the box there was a hole through which
water could be poured. The water would seep
in and around the relics and then fall out of a lower hole.
People could drink this water, or clean themselves
with the water. Baptized, again, with hope.
My friend, Nikki, went to the river yesterday to
fill up a bottle with its thanksgiving flow.
Her life like the Cuyahoga, is moving to the silty sweet delta,
somehow, on a crooked path,
the same way drinking water runs to
the low spot before it can be taken in.
She makes necklaces from red glass,
she throws a slobbery ball to her dog Bill
over and over again. I collect
acorns and black stones with magic white bands.
My neighbor places her childrens' stick leg drawings
into boxes marked, "Keep."
I do not know what you do,
but I know you find small holy things to hold onto.
A peach pit, the college ID with the good haircut,
a piece of birch bark, a golden bracelet with
links shaped like leaves. I do not know what you do,
but I know that something some time kissed your palm
and your fingers wrapped around it and held on.
Held on the whole night long.
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