Holy Shit

by Peter Pereira

It used to be more private—just the

immediate family gathered after mass,

the baptismal font at the rear

of the church tiny as a bird bath.

The priest would ladle a few teaspoons’

tepid holy water on the bundled baby’s

forehead, make a crack about the halo

being too tight as the new soul wailed.

We’d go home to pancakes and eggs.

These days it’s a big Holy-wood production—

midmass, the giant altar rolls back to reveal

a Jacuzzi tub surrounded by potted palms.

The priest hikes up his chasuble, steps

barefoot out of his black leather loafers

and wades in like a newfangled John as

organ music swells and the baby-bearing families

line up like jumbo jets ready for takeoff.

But when the godparents handed my niece’s newborn

naked to their parish priest, and he dunked her

into the Jacuzzi’s bath-warm holy water,

her little one grew so calm and blissful she

pooped—not a smelly three-days’ worth, explosive

diaper load, but enough to notice. As the godparents

scooped the turds with a handkerchief,

the savvy priest pretended he hadn’t seen,

swept through the fouled water with his palm

before the next baby in line was submerged.

After mass, my niece sat speechless,

red-faced, not knowing what to say—

or whether—as church ladies, friends, and

family members presented one by one to

the tub where the babies had been

baptized. As they knelt and bowed

and dipped their fingers in,

and blessed themselves.