Believing Thomas


Black out on the road to Kanakamala Kurishumudi 
as the heat brews me like a cup o’ joe 
coming from Holy Land Chalakudy—
                         a pilgrim
footslogging that quondam Doubter’s path
to kick up my own red-hot ghosts and show 
I too can abdicate my throne of not being lost 
or unsure. My water bottle is long empty 
and now the trees are just a green mush 
on either side of this treadmill road, so thank God Jesus 
that man rides up on his Honda bike and stops
to give me a lift. His shirt is either orange or blue.
An airy nothing: that’s me 

until he drops me off at this church 
and I refill at the spigot, walk in and sit.
No AC but shade. Filled less with homesickness 
than with heresickness, 
I scowl at the virgin on the wall 
and her baby—you know, the one 
I’ve been chasing all this time—but he just stares 
like a painting, and suddenly bereft, I’m hit 
by the thought that I know God because God 
isn’t here. This church and all the Western Ghats are empty. 
The whole world is empty! But who can describe the qualia
of the divine? 

I’m not jaded, I just know the virulence
of unspoken prayer and hear that small voice calling come 
and so I go poking my hands in every hole
sick with hope
to find the wrists of Jesus	 shouting





("Believing Thomas" published at Wandering Lights Literary Magazine)