Who is this fish?
Where can I find him?
What may I confess? Can he
absolve me of all my guilts?
Can he ever forgive me?
Will he bless my inner child
and let me marry myself to myself;
perform the last rites upon my death?
Can I follow him home to the next
Who is this holy, breathless one;
this one who thrives in water, not air?
Does he wear a bishop’s miter
or sit in silence somewhere?
Is he encrusted with the wealth
of the Church or does he roam the earth
in tatters, holding aloft his begging bowl?
If he comes toward me now, will I recognize
a fish out of water, out of earth, out of air?
When he courses down the aisles of my life
swinging a censer and spritzing me
with salty blessings, my job is not to ask
who is this holy, shining one
but simply, to accept
his pungent guidance.