The Time Between

Yesterday, I died after eating pappardelle al ragù,

yet this is not a cause for weeping. It is true— 

Time has punched my card, hung the Sold Out sign 

in the window. But your heart still beats, does it not? 

Where will its current take you? I hope 

you’ll disembark at Love, perhaps even Happiness. 

I, myself, am lying on a cloud bed in the far 

eastern skies of Curiosity. I know I’ll break open soon 

to quench thirsty soil and swell drowsy rivers 

to the brink of overflow. This is the nature of things. 

Is it too much to ask for joy after death? To stand 

under the waterfall, skin to stream? 

This is the time between Sunday best and seraphim wings.

The sun is still wild on fire, Chrysos-brilliant. Let its tale

unfold like sheer-stockinged legs from a limousine. 

Let us honor whatever god or spark began our own story.

Eras stacked like Sant’Agata cakes— aren’t you glad

you ate the 21st century and not the Martyr Ages? 

Each of us to her own light, her own dark closet. No matter

the monster, there is always time for grace. We need

to cling to grace, paint our houses grace, drink

from the vine of grace. I am still afraid. I am still afraid 

to miss out. To miss You. What is the word for this? 

Ah, yes. Appetite. May I have seconds, please?

Published in The Jarnal, Vol. 3, 2023