I Believe; Help My Unbelief

Creed

I believe

in one God, the bishops wrote.

They flank the monarch in a crescent pew —

in frescoes, icons — hip to hip, their heads

encased in halos hard and round

as space helmets. They grip their bibles

like golden bricks. Arius, heretic, huddles

on the ground in their midst

with no halo in which to breathe. Cosmic

costume-makers, they pieced a garment shaped

like God, a plain but sturdy thing. The boning

I believe

distorts my frame as I grip the pew, lurch

into the ancient form, shoulder blades

pressing precariously against the joins — but

I’ll come back and put it on again

wondering ever, whether

it won’t fit, whether

the seams will split this time.

*

I presented my daughter, the crown of her sweet head

for holy baptism, according to the rite, and they came at me

with questions, one after the other — Will you, Do you —

a cascade. I sputtered, I gasped. I needed more time

than I had had, or would ever have — but she twisted

against me, her hand gripped my chin—

Do you believe? and

          Do you believe? and

                    Do you believe?

I believe that sometimes

and more often these days

the old relic inverts when I pull it off

frayed lining exposed to what it meant to exclude

while what cohered within is flung out

through him

for us

again in glory

fragmenting, expanding into space

at the speed of light

from light

and even the raging cry

of the mad seer cannot be heard

out here, and the Son himself

begotten not made

hurtles like space junk

into the abyss.

*

Lord, help my unbelief —

this devolving into particles

I cannot combine into any version of myself

I know. Long ago, I was submerged

three times in a chlorine Jordan

while onlookers straddled the diving boards.

I look for— the part of me that never

came back up, still floats there, supine

and wavering in the aqua tomb, forever

just about to rise—

I fear this yearning forward as the universe

rewinds. I fear my daughter will hold me

by the chin one day and say I lied.

The bishops, with a swish of vestments

have put down their shears

and bricks, and walked away.

The world to come crouches,

compressed in this primal knot

of energy and fear and hope, that infernal time

on the cusp of creation, before any creed.

With his finger, Arius writes in the dirt: Now

we all will have the chance

in thirteen billion years

to believe again.