The Relics We Carry
I harvest golden curls and fallen teeth from kids asleep for a reliquary,
a shoebox hidden in my closet, home of the relic, fairy
safety deposit box. Dried umbilical cord in a spiral mold.
(You won’t find St. John’s jawbone in my reliquary.)
King Ashoka divided the Buddha’s ashes into eighty-four
thousand portions stored in stupas — the relics we bury.
A pope lies like Sleeping Beauty in a glass body reliquary
while a nun kneels beside him — the relic she marries.
The head of St. Catherine, the heart of St. Camillus, the tongue
of St. Anthony, the blood of St. Januarius. The relics we carry.
My young son said he’d add motors to Mama’s bones, animating
my body before I’m buried. We each embody another’s reliquary.