Standing under the streaming spray of the shower head,
Devotion pours over steam-pinked skin.
Warmed by salamanders curled deep in the pipes,
Fire and water cleanse and comfort.
Lady of the Healing Well, Brigid of the Sacred Flame,
Take my tears, cradle my heart,
Here, in your most humble of holy places.
She stands, arms gently open,
A cement shell, pale blue, at her back.
“Our Blessed Lady of the Bathtub” my mother derided.
I wish my gods were so familiar.
Our gods are everywhere.
Why are yours trapped in cathedrals?
Grand no doubt, but aren’t they lonely
When the great double door glide shut
Against the human misery gathered at their feet?
Against the gods of the world outside?