Faithless

I would give anything for the sure
and certain faith of my friend, four

good walls and a roof that sheds buckets
in stormy weather. Instead, my jacket

blasts open in light gusts, leaking
rivers down my skin, cold-puckered.

Belief must be something you’re born
with, like your frame, thick or thin,

all the dieting in the world not enough
to refashion you. You can starve yourself

or run, but still you’ll look like you could
carry a calf on your shoulder or chop wood

for a prairie winter. I can see my friend now,
shaking her head. How

like a child I am, blaming another while
shards circle my feet. She smiles

and mentions Paul, blinded mid-persecution,
then soldiering on

for his once-enemies. Though a Jew,
I’m no Paul. It’s true I’m adept at excuses,

calling the knock at the door
the neighbor’s workmen or the backfire

of a car as I stuff in earplugs and write
verse, trying on my own to arrest night.