A church. 

Honey rows of wood meeting in an arc

high above warm light, the wine-colored

carpet splitting pews like 

an axillary artery running between ribs.

I could make this easy, 

say that spicy-sweet incense fumes

or Caucasian Jesus stretched like

melting wax across the crucifix

make me believe in God's existence,

but they don't.

Instead, my sister standing in a black coat,

mist rising from pavement as verdant

blades of grass slice through musty dirt,

or my fingers pressed tight against my wrist

feeling the hum of life-blood against my skin.

Maybe its my cousin, whose cradle-capped 

head once flaked newborn skin collecting

in her tawny hair;

her mother combing it out with a damp cloth

and baby oil. 

Now she stands on doughy legs and gushes 

smiles at my presence. 

I could also say that rain on a windshield 

spreading like roots 

across the glass solidifies my belief,

a sonata humming through strings,

reverberating off of the rigid curves of 

a violin's walls;

two-year-old babbles filling the body cavity

of a church.