There’s holy water beading on my forehead,
Salting up the seam of my lips, clumping my eyelashes,
Streaking my cheeks like I’m crying holy.
I can’t speak Latin but sometimes I can remember how to sing it.
I don’t know what the words mean anymore.
Or maybe it’s that I never knew them at all.
It always just meant faith to me, but I’ve forgotten what that means.
I’ve still got wheat bread body stuck to the roof of my mouth,
I’ve still got bitter wine blood staining my teeth.
They taught me to swallow God whole,
And then they couldn’t answer when I asked them where He went.