Becoming a Believer
The locals, believers of gods, drink Tsipouro long into the night
And brag to me about how lucky they were to be born here
The most beautiful place in the world, they say
Though few of them have ever been anywhere else
Look at this place, the old fisherman says to me
Waving his sunburned forearms toward the sea
Tell me, the shepherd asks, through his boozy breath
Where else do the stars shine so bright
That you can close your eyes and still see them?
Try it, they insist, sensing my skepticism
Close your eyes and look up at the sky
And wanting to believe, as these men do
I take another sip, reveling in the burn
Then tilt my head back to the star-filled sky
Do you see them? They ask, after I close my eyes
Do you still see the stars?
And before I can lie, one of them (I suspect the carpenter)
Punches me in the nuts, and I find myself bowing at a new altar
Reborn as a witness to the glorious wonder of this world