“Now Jesus sat opposite the treasury and saw how the people put money into the treasury. And many who were rich put in much. Then one poor widow came and threw in two mites, which amount to a cent.” Mark 12:41-42
For $30 USD, a holy land warehouse will bubble wrap,
pack, and stamp a mite enshrined in an olive-wood box.
They’ll send me a certificate to prove the authenticity of my purchase:
a Jewish lepton struck before the crucifixion,
minted under Pontius Pilate, and buried 2000 years.
I order the highest quality “Grade A” mite,
“Grade A” like a Ruth’s Chris filet or my 9th grade
report card; yes, that’s the mite for me.
A coin carefully resurrected, an image so clear,
I can make out Caesar’s pimples.
Clearing customs, my holy souvenir arrives. I pry out the polished coin, this coin,
light in my hand, must have slipped easily
from the widow’s dusty palm, (although my King James
says she threw it, threw it, cast it all away.)
Two mites’ worth of bread, or cloth, or hope,
or the small pleasure of a fig,
she dropped them all into the coffer.
Who would have believed
that I could hold her treasure forever?