I don’t believe in God, but I am a poet. I’m a sucker for words and symbols, which means that rituals get me. Rituals, in fact, are why I questioned my church in the first place: if reading “Annabel Lee” out loud could make me shiver more than reciting the Nicene Creed, how could I tell what I believed? Do I believe in the only Son, eternally begotten from the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten not made? Well. I believe in anapestic tetrameter. I believe in complex rhyme schemes.
If you would like to read a really really sad essay I wrote about my mother’s death and how God isn’t real, please head on over to The Toast. Bring tissues.