Epiphany in the Atheist’s Kitchen

 

One moment her hands

Are soaking in the dishpan’s

Sudsy warmth. The next:

She’s on the floor, dripping

 

And kneeling. Bare memory

Of some great blow that

Struck her everywhere

At once—so heavy, she failed

 

Beneath its weight. Now she’s

Down and hollowed out where

She can smell the trashy odor

Of the garbage pail, and feel

 

The greasy sheen of olive oil

From last night’s salad, slicking up

The floor tiles where she fell . . .

 

In the abattoir, the slaughterer’s

Hammer hits one true blow, then

Moves on blandly to stun the next

Dumb creature being shuttled

 

Through the chute to death. Not

Exactly that, she thinks when she

Can think again: not death—

Though something has perished,

 

And some strange force is rapidly

Advancing to occupy the newly emptied

Space. Whatever it was she never

Believed in before, she has to now

 

Consider that it really might exist.

Because here it is, beside her, right

Here in this room—not saying anything,

Not trying to convince her—just

 

Going about its business, removing

All the agony.