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Douglas Goetsch
Eleanor, who is driving
me to the Atlantic
City bus station,
asks if I wouldn't
mind stopping
at a labyrinth
in Longport she hates
to pass. Outside of
mythology, or The Shining,
all I know of labyrinths
is that you're supposed
to walk them, slowly.
This one is painted:
white lines
on green asphalt.
Feel yourself emptying,
she tells me
relieved by long arcs
that deliver us
into new quadrants.
An Hispanic woman
and two little boys
have joined us, but
the boys soon lose
patience, and cut to
the circle in the middle,
where they shove one another
like sumo wrestlers.
When we arrive, I'm not
sure if I've accomplished
anything. I look over
at the Church of the Redeemer,
which is closed, feeling
quietly mocked.
On the way out, Eleanor
tells me, you're supposed
to fill yourself with aspirations,
things you want in your life.
That strikes me
as a little greedy --
though I would like
to make my bus.
Eleanor would like
her Bahá'í divorce
to be over with,
the year of living alone
and dating nobody
but her husband.
It becomes hypnotic,
the painted lanes...
I look up
and see my mother,
whom I haven't
seen in years,
treading innocently
as anyone
while walking a labyrinth,
or folding laundry,
or driving a child
to the doctor.
You could try
to figure it out,
the pattern of it all,
But it might
be better just
to walk it, slowly.
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