When I Tell You I Believe

You ask me what I believe in 

   And I am eight years old again.

knees digging into my bedroom floor

Hands resting on the bed frame 

pointed up to the ceiling.

    Praying to a god I’ve never known,

        Mistaking faith with craving.

You ask me what I believe in

  And I sit in the living room.

My eyes race 

between a torah portion and a slow oven clock.

When belief meant dedication 

And nothing more.

You ask me what I believe in

      But I do not know how to explain

that I only believe in the things I know.

My mother’s hands in the kitchen.

My father’s worn shoes by the door.

You ask me

  And I tell you I don’t believe in anything

Knowing that isn’t true

But still hoping you believe me. 

If you asked me what I believed in I would tell you

I believe in

Notebooks.

My mothers, my own.

I believe in 

Recording a history.

    Writing a life onto the page.

I would tell you I believe 

   In crying.

In the kitchen, hallway, bathroom.

  In fresh fruit

strawberries from the punnet,

      Red and purple staining my fingertips.

If you asked me,

I’d tell you that I believe in stories.

I believe in writing them, telling them, hearing them, 

believing them.