A story of religion

As a kid they tell us to project that face onto the moon
and I remember it scaring me. I could hardly look
at it, craters so deep they shadow even reflection of the sun.
But in my teens I became very sick
and I’d gotten into a space where I was too weak to stay awake for anything,
but too restless to find comfort on that basement’s twin mattress
I cried and cried
but one night played a song that sang
bolotho kar isharay, hashe chad akashe?
Tell me upon whose gesture does the moon smile.
What makes the moon smile?
I ran outside as if to ask.
I stared at the moon when my tears were the weather
when my tears were all I’d ever said.
The moon listened and quieted me, stared back.
It forever stares back.
My one constant.
So the moon is my religion. Hardly separate from the ocean anyway, the two things that make me believe in God.
Everything I’ve ever felt, I project onto it. I make the moon smile. And still the crater face
is not the soul of it. Its glow is its voice
and to me it sings and answers.


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