Torah scrolls on their mahogany spindles <br />mesmerize me, as does the Dove and Latin <br />chanting, neat as our gardener’s pruning, but <br />parents say, Choose one. <br /> <br />Crossing myself in front of the rabbi makes <br />Dad spit-mad. Sheila taught me, but now <br />calls me a Christ-killer. My best friend crosses. <br />Kissing, she blames me. <br /> <br />In our temple, the purses snap shut, hoarding <br />ancient dark, but a pillar of fire in Point <br />Fermin’s searchlight, roaming the foggy coast <br />speaks to me nightly. <br /> <br />Men at the rail toss tuna over their heads. <br />Space engineers and Japanese farmers hoe <br />furrows in sky or kale but cannot agree <br />on a Deity. <br /> <br />In America, you can make your own faith. <br />I’m mud-mixing mine from their discards and nubs, <br />kneeling over artifacts: seed, stone, ice plant, <br />purse seiners, loquats— <br /> <br />Those fruits that open faster than holy books. <br />Their mahogany pits are shaped like beating <br />hearts, living sculptures, light-spilling chalices, <br />oceans in rhythm.<br /><br />Rachel Dacus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crossing-myself-in-temple/
