Walking a Labyrinth

Walking a Labyrinth

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 

 as we meander in, 

the countless switch-backs 

 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,

retracing the turns, 

 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.