I wasn’t feeling cross when I suspended,
For a time, some minor flourishes of faith.
Around my neck, a sign and chain,
Since grammar school had so remained.
Without a silver thought of why or how.
The pendant seemed a comfort then, and now.
So for a time no outward link
Gave space for anyone to think
That there was spirit anywhere to see.
It was not fear that so subdued
Displays of ties to holy roods,
Or to a rood of any kind or See.
Instead, no ostentatious show
Would raise a hand or blow a nose,
That needed ways to shed the phlegm
That came with stalwart vertigo.
The world was always cautious then
To keep the thumpers taut and thin.
So now I wear a daily ankh,
To shade the threat of catholic zeal.
May god forbid that we all feel
Some harmony with those of faith
Whose hearts maintain a different face,
Or – horrors! – those who innocently kneel.
The ankh so long the cross predates
That centuries of love and weight
Lay soft foundation with a simple curl.
I could with flint-like bearded chin,
Replace the one I’ve worn so thin.
Each symbol praises life, and prays our world
Can outlast hate, and fear, and even sin.