The god I’d left behind sent one last email
before returning to his people.
That summer was sixty-five degrees and fluorescent.
I was working at a law firm.
The logical mind thinks,
You’ll be paid for your suffering.
Paradise is of this earth
and it is yours,
said the copy-machine.
The impenetrable old growth of paper on my desk
begged to be made
When I took off my skirt-suit I felt like my mother, or myself
to be my mother.
I stood at the edge
of a New World.
I stared up the long rocky coast.
Whichever way was something to bump against
I pressed on in that direction.
It was like a sickness.
It was like the uncontrollable urge
to eat dirt.
|Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Lowen. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on December 27, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.|