Precarious
Women from the well in
perfect balance,
water jars spilling not a
drop –
so I place my Beloved
above my head,
conducting this world’s
affairs.
How precarious it seems,
juggling my faith, here
and there,
often weighty and absurd
– a pain in the neck, really,
but I never think of
dumping it.
I’d rather be wrong about
my Beloved,
than right about atheism.
Other religions have
snapped under me,
their bones diseased to
the marrow,
but the burden of my
faith
in the Beloved has lifted
me –
at times, my whole being
threatening to fly away.
O child of God, you have
no choice in the matter.
The Ancient One has
knocked upon your door.
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