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 irrelevant. When I took off my skirt-suit I felt like my mother, or myself done pretending 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.