by Jamie Weil | Poetry | Fall 2020
i don’t believe in divinity.
this much you should know, not just
because you always know,
but because i often laugh
about sunday school
and how quick the gospels
became cyclical and dull.
if you will forgive my hypocrisy,
i had a moment today
when i did believe
in something somewhat otherworldly.
it was late afternoon, and your hands were shaking
from the little rest you allow;
from mixed blessings and turns of silence.
in concern i reached across the table
to hold your shaking hand in mine, and,
as i did, a light—from your screen
or from the ceiling—caught my eye,
and then caught yours,
and i fell in.
what i am saying is,
i’ve been here before,
i’ve had my fits of faith,
but never so well-phrased,
and it will fade
and it will return,
and i will fall again, into that pool
of delicate waves:
the lightlike water.