Coming back to California

Coming back to California • Lily Gebs

We hid upstairs in the church’s stale attic,

Ignoring the single armchair

To sit together on the floor.

The sun sent dust floats sailing between us

And we cried until our eyes were empty.

Then we just sat there with

Our hearts crushed into things unheart-like

And our faces crumpled like goblins.

The next week they took her away;

They told me that I loved her wrong.

“God is proud of you,” she said,

And it hurt too much to reply.

Who are they

To tell me what God thinks,

These people who don’t bother to ask

Why I cry myself to sleep at night?