The Cult Of Relics Denise Levertov

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?