They ask what I believe in
Not a breathless deity with wooden features
Black apricot eyes.
Not many creatures charged with
If there is a what,
I believe in the wood that his arms lay on
Strapped and pinned with rustic nails.
The gravity that burst his lungs and
Allowed him to cry “It is done!”
The right thing to ask is who.
Who do I believe in?
I believe in the hands that printed the
Stars and the moon and the clouds.
They don’t ask me anything
No one wants to know
Perhaps it’s not important
Perchance they already do.
I wear it on my lips
My eyes speak gospel for me
The music from my hands-
I hold baby Jesus on my hips.
Just once I’d prefer some person
Ask me who I believe in.
Not what, but who.
I won’t give a Sunday school
Premeditated poem, lethargic liturgy
Mess of Moses and Mary and
John and Joseph and-
I want to introduce you to someone
The only one.