Who am I writing like?
Sunday School Agnostic
by Rachel Pinkstone
Her star shines like an emblem of certainty against her neck.
It rests in the hollow, six points of direction, not the five I place on top of the tree.
And that is the only place I put it. There’s no place in me for that.
Her star comes with a purpose and a plan; not just a religion, but a life.
While I was pulled from the womb and immersed- cold, wet, clean of my sins,
she was born into a warm cocoon of faith, family and tradition;
a chrysalis that will house her until the day she dies.
Her unmarked body will be buried in the family plot.
I had planned to be spread against the wind--blown far away.
I pass the synagogue on my afternoon run; the song and the prayers rise out against the murmur of traffic. It hurts to hear the passion and the practice of their tune,
but I can’t help myself from listening—there’s no song I hear for me.
They say the covenant was made between God and Abraham, that Moses had given them books; that each life has a place and a part in the song.
I can barely recall the last time I even bowed my head to pray.
I wisecrack about the opiate of the masses,
but I’m still just waiting for the drug.
