ELIZABETH ROBINSON


                                     



ON THE AFTERLIFE




Heaven is personal, a score to be settled.

You would recline on the divine and fluffy bed

if only to relish the bitter post-nasal

drip that burns down your throat.


Say it. Everything you spat out in the one life,

say again here. Cloud borne.


Heaven is a perfect parallel, no, a continuity

with all the antique rage, and if only


more eloquent. But no. You wake mute

and therefore perfected. God is your mattress.


You wake without a word more of it, your hair

tangled, a brittle stain burned through the counterpane


by the acrid stuff that had dripped from

your throat. And your eyes

still unfocussed with sleep.






TYPO 34