I’m feeling a bit tipsy after a margarita, almost too good tequila,
and a beer before that and the freak thunderstorm this morning,
though why it’s called freak when they mean surprise I want
to know, and I’ve been reading about the saints. I want to know

them too—if anything is to be called an aberration it’s the death
of the saints, all gouged eyes and broken teeth, boxer’s ring full
of steadfast sinners, bets placed on the wrong life every time.
I love the saints more than my church thinks I should. I’m not

Catholic, only sometimes I want to be in those late hours
when I’m thinking about candles and incense, sweet bitterness
filling my nose. How much more of me needs reformation.
Tonight I’ve been reading about Apollinia after googling

saint of the mouth for poetic reasons. A virgin who threw herself
into the fire. I want to be that bold, I want to feel flames like hers
but instead I walk across laminate and pour out the two bowls
that have been gathering rainwater. Festering sores and blood,

I remember, but I don’t have enough anger inside of me to destroy
the things I hate. No revelation here except in a text from a friend
reminding me to call. We can talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow?
Let me first hold onto today, my saint-friend, my baptism bowls.