Night Light

The last visitor before I sleep is always the old priest puffing up the stairs to my door, a wine cask under each arm, a loaf of pumpernickel in his teeth. He’s always too late to give the last rites, and even though I’m usually dead by then, it falls to me to console him. So I say, “Father, Father, you don’t have to hurry. Faith is no longer a klieg. It’s a night light left burning all day, and its bulb is hissing.” Donal Mahoney ------------------------------------------------------------ This poem was first published in Commonweal Magazine, November 6, 2009.