Saturday Pome

 When I Believed in the Traditional God

I believed in vampires, too.
Black ice felt like a case full of bad bets,
left out there, waiting on collection.
Nothing could survive
in the dark I carried.

I asked my father—my minister—
what makes holy water holy.
God, he said. Prayer.

I watched him pour warm tap water
into a pint jar,
seal it tight with fitted tin foil.

After the baptism that morning,
while he was upstairs changing,
I lifted the wooden lid of the font,
dipped out what remained
into a Styrofoam cup,
carried it home,
set it beside my bed.

All that was left
was to find the stake.