When I wonder how faith could ever be taught

“…What use is a door if
you can’t exit? A door that can’t
be opened is called a wall. My
father is on the other side of
the wall.”
~ Victoria Chang, “Obit”

In the beginning a bird
raised its voice and bugled

from the hedge, and soon
the wood filled with answers.

But none of them could tell
why some of us look at a world

made of things neatly indexed:
sandbar, turning wheel, lever

to stop and start the swell;
while others dip fingers

into a cool marble basin,
then sign their foreheads,

chests, shoulders and lips
with water called blest

before it vapors into air.
In the beginning it felt

like love, or that a promise
was stronger than the hard edge

of a question. Or perhaps it forgot,
just as a weight lifted, soundless,

away from the branch— how only
a small tremble could tell

there once was something
fragile that rested there.

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