Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
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