The Bostonian Reading Amichai
In our house, no one was taught
to argue with God. So how could I
disbelieve my nightlight, resist
my pink-and-blue picture books,
or the dove on top of the Christmas tree?
All the glistening meats and cakes
might vaporize, and bedtime stories
unwrite themselves, give over
to bad dreams. I never knew
there was a tradition of despair
in other households, or any need
for salvation. Nothing exact
ever called to me. Even now,
bewildered by the state of the world,
of my life, I don’t rage
as other women do. Neither
do I have their faith. I don’t argue
with God how none of it makes sense.
That’s simply how it is—
like the original blur at the edge of light
the nightlight casts.
by Pamela Stewart
from Infrequent Mysteries
Alice James Books 1991