The Unholy Spirit

If Jesus was the type to enjoy a drink, 
then the porcelain version pinned at our front door
would surely be happier than he looks

Beneath his feet, a round finger bowl,
eternally brimming with holy water.
Never a dry-dip in this house.

Topped with measures from Lourdes
and Medjugorje, or jars filled at the local monastery,
matters not, my mother pours away—

Meanwhile in the shed, my devoted father brews
brandy-ball poitín, and scratches his head
at his stash of unexpectedly empty containers.



Niall M Oliver is an Irish writer who has recently returned home with his wife and sons after a decade living in London. His poems have previously featured in The Honest Ulsterman, Boyne Berries, Fly On The Wall Press, Ink Sweat & Tears, Black Bough Poetry and others. He occasionally tweets, but only about Poetry and can be found at @NMOliverPoetry.