the holy grail

my father is the keeper
of the holy grail. he does not know it
but it follows him like
a toppled tower. i have seen it buzzing
above his head & sometimes he will
be drinking from it on his fifth beer
on a weary summer night. i am assuming
this will mean i might inherit it.
i am not sure if biblical fury will recognize me
as a first-born son or not. the older i get
the more i worry about prophecies. 
about which unfulfilled ones will end up
on my head. i consider whose houses 
i will have to clean out & what ghosts
will watch me do it. the thing about
the holy grail is that there has never
just been one of them. early on, the little vessel 
started to bud & branch. i have, on occasion, 
seen another person with the same affliction.
one of my father's friends, the one with
the blue chicken coop, he had two grails
one in each hand. he didn't see either of them. 
none of us go to church anymore which has
improved our lives greatly. my father used to
sing in the choir. he had the voice of
a thumb on the rim of an ancient glass.
angels peered in the windows of the church
because they were nosy, not because
my father sang well. if i get the grail 
i hope i will be able to see it. that is the problem
with prophecies, they happen to us. 
i will fill my grail with dry cereal 
& i'll eat it in the dark. i will run my thumb
along the rim & hear my father singing
ave maria, a song i am not sure if he believes
or not. the cup filling with sound.
our teeth like bells in our skulls. once, 
as a child, i tried to tell him i could see it.
i said, "why do you keep that cup?" my father,
half-drunk in the lamp light, asked,
"what cup?" the grail was huge that night.