I understand why

people join cults

out here. something

about the cyan sky

makes me want to

believe. there’s nothing

inherently wrong with a cult, right?

I remember that one summer

I almost got swept in.

I still miss fertile minds

luxe floor pillows

wafting palo santo

gathered buoyant heads

nodding silently

mumbled Tibetan chants

the contagion of belonging

infected me, an antidote

to rotting rituals.

What even is evil, anyways

I almost succumbed

so imagine you only

have hours to live

all life is emptiness

and everyone’s waiting

for you there

in the swaying grasses

of your surrender.

Gillian Vernick is a writer and poet in New York.

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