I knelt
when everyone else knelt.
I bowed my head
when everyone else bowed.
I knew the words by sound,
by order,
by years of hearing them
fall over a room
till the room itself felt shaped by them.
Yet there were nights
I did not know
whether I was speaking upward
or inward
or nowhere.
That scared me some.
It made me feel older
than I wanted.
I think doubt enters quiet.
Not with thunder.
Not with wicked laughter.
It slips in
while somebody is coughing two pews back
and the heat comes on
and the stained glass looks dark
from outside the church.
I did not stop believing.
I stopped believing belief was simple.