On Earth as it is In Heaven

Every single time I talk 
about anxiety my therapist 
asks, But did you die? Admittedly,
no I did not die but I sure felt 
like dying and not coming back 
until after the ugly cry, and someone
says Coffee? or Dumplings? or Let's go 
try the new place selling miso burnt 
butter ice cream. But when I cave
and actually order two scoops instead 
of one or say yes, why not, I shall 
get eight hours' sleep instead of pulling
another all-nighter — why do I always 
feel like a traitor, a failed, unworthy 
representative of the resistance 
to all that the gods of late twentieth-
century capitalism would have us believe 
are the only ways to a good, productive
life? Toil and trouble, sacrifice, 
reward in the afterlife, etc. I wish 
I could say I bypassed the compressor, 
engineered a hyperspace jump to another 
constellation, leaving all this madness 
and suffering behind. I know it's not 
possible. Life is that beautiful 
brown and cream speckled owl perched 
in one of those big trees overlooking 
the river: it sings Who cooks for you, 
who cooks for you all? even as it 
swoops down and snatches up any small, 
soft-bellied thing limping in the dirt.