Saturation Point

The nephew is wailing in a gown made of lace

while the priest says the words about water and light.

I’m looking for a sign in this echoing space,

but the shadows are winning the long, quiet fight.

In the basement, the tea is lukewarm and brown,

and I drop in a cube just to watch it go thin.

It crumbles and vanishes, sinking straight down,

leaving nothing behind but a sweetness on skin.

It doesn't happen fast, or with a great sound,

it just loses its edges and turns into cloud.

I’m stirring the sediment I’ve finally found,

while the rest of the family is praying out loud.