photo by Pat Whelen for unsplash
“Non-religious,” you spit out,
lips pulled tight over the gap
in your teeth.
Like a blacksmith at the anvil you
pound away at God, shape the iron rod
growing in you since childhood when
you fainted kneeling at the altar, acolyte
cross clanging against the floor.
I want to insist
There is a God.
You’ve seen the sky
studded with brilliance
as the moon beckons in the east,
its crescent cutting through the night.
You’ve seen that bright mystery
spiral through skies like a delicate web
linking stars, planets, galaxies.
Instead—
I reach for your hand.
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