A ten-year-old tells me he does not believe in God, and
that belief,
in itself,
is too hard.

He is ten, he tells me,
not a baby, and God,
he tells me, was not a very good father.

He asks me what I believe,
If Hell is some place where you die
Continually
Forever,
Or if Hell is somewhere where you lie motionless
Unable to speak or see.
That, he tells me, is what Hell is.

It is almost Passover, and God is in every reflection
On every street corner at midnight,
He is in the empty spaces,
the stomach ache
The heartburn
God is waiting for us to believe in Him

And how do I tell a ten-year-old boy
That I don’t even believe in myself.
We are driving, and he has rendered me
Speechless,
So many grapevine crucifixes,
Everything still looks dead, dried, strung-out and thirsty,
I am so thirsty, and I was never taught how to pray.