Do I Believe In God?
by Hannah Feustle
I’ll tell you that sometimes I’ve gone through the motions,
climbed to the gleaming white cathedral
at the top of Montmatre, and lit my candles there,
have knelt on bits of broken things so pain would keep
the doubting quiet; used to read the children’s bible
like any other book and finished the real one
an afternoon when it was raining. I’ll say sometimes
I like to pretend coincidence means something—
Road names, particular shade of blue—
but in general it’s been awfully quiet up there, no—
Scratch that—silence would mean I never lapse
Into belief. There are great swaths of quiet
Punctuated now and then with a click, a bump,
squeak of floorboard, low rumble, or a step—
the sounds of a building at night, leaving me to decide,
Wide awake, flashlight in hand—inside? Or somewhere else?