Agnosticism by Virginia Kane

what kind of person goes into a religious supplies shop and leaves with a gag gift

Agnosticism

by Virginia Kane

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At the exit I take for my lover’s home,
someone has planted thousands of poppies.

Orange-red, they sway beneath a peeling Cracker Barrel billboard
and a banner in all caps, dreaming I repent.

Later, at the spiritual goods store,
I search for Henry’s birthday present.

The punk clerk watches me finger calamus root, gold vials
of prayer oil, Madonna statues poised like action figures,

answers my questions about tarot decks, rodent bones,
match boxes stamped with the Sacred Heart.

In the end, I settle on a wax candle
shaped like a massive cock, then wonder

what kind of person goes into a religious
supplies shop and leaves with a gag gift.

I feel guilty the whole drive home, though
and this makes me feel closer to God

since I was Catholic once, obedient
as any blue flame commanded to burn.

Heading west, I decide that if I ever leave
Appalachia, I’ll miss the highway signs,

violent promises on the hillside at dusk,
neon yellow confidence that somewhere, hell awaits.

What I’m saying is, sometimes I sin
just to feel like someone’s watching.

First published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, July 2025.