by Cynthia Lowen
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.
About This Poem
"I've been exploring how the 19th century concept of manifest destiny--driving the westward expansion across North America in the 1800s--might play out in the context of a modern-day relationship. What frontiers in ourselves, our environments, and each other do we seek out and attempt to dominate? What motivates us to forge towards the unknown?"
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