My father’s serviette ring,
silver incised with a design
of Scotch thistles, the central medallion
uninitialed, a blank oval.
The two massive
German kitchen knives, pre-1914, not-stainless steel,
which my mother carefully scoured with Vim
after each use.
My daily use
of these and other such things
links me to hands long gone.
Medieval con-men disgust and amuse us;
we think we’d never have fallen
for such crude deceptions-unholy
animal bones, nails from any old barn,
splinters enough from the Cross to fill
a whole lumber-yard.
But can we
with decency mock the gullible
for desiring these things?
Who doesn’t want
to hold what hands belov’d or venerated
were accustomed to hold?-You? I?
Who wouldn’t want
to put their lips to the true chalice?