Believe It

You can’t believe
You’re beloved,
can You,

after all You’ve
done and
failed to do?

Adored, cherished,
even though
the list of Your
lazy lapses
would occupy
a dozen chapters
in a Dostoevsky
novel, and
a recitation of Your
secret sins
would have its
own shelf
in the Library
of Congress.

You can’t believe,
can You,
that there
are legions
of angels
assigned
to guard
every footstep,

even though
You often
choose to
give them
the slip.

You insist
that Your
record will
haunt You
all Your days,
but You’re
the only one
carrying a copy
around in Your
back pocket,
constantly
pulling it out
for Your
incessant
review.

You can’t believe
You’re beloved,
can You?

But You
couldn’t take
the measure
of that love
even if You
tried to
comprehend it
every day of
Your forever
life.

(Photo by Julia Kadel; UnSplash)