To a Six-Armed Hindu Idol, on Display at the Phoenix Art Museum, Sculpted by an Unknown Artist, circa 900 AD

I will not bow to you
or pray to you
or do whatever it is that Hindus do
when they come walking into your view.
I will not offer you a sacrifice,
and I won't give you respect, or even act nice.
How can I, when your mere presence 
is an affront to everything I believe in?

You have no real power.
Nobody really has six arms.
You are a false god, an idol,
nothing more than the stone
from which you were cut,
inspiring neither fear nor love
in my thoroughly Christian heart.

How can you sit there
-whatever your name is-
some name I can't pronounce,
and shouldn't remember anyway,
but how can you sit there,
century after century,
sturdy, solid, confident?
Don't you know you're a phony?

My God is a jealous God.
How do you think He felt today
as I walked briskly by the European exhibits,
casting a few obligatory glances at Jesus?
How do you think He feels now,
seeing me stop here at your feet, slowing my breath,
admiring your bulk, grace, and symmetry,
gazing into eyes that look deep into mine,
ancient eyes which look all ways at once?