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?