The Weighing of the Heart in the Hall of Truth
Heaven’s not for bodies, at least not my perfect one,
and mirrors in heaven still lie as on earth, and still disgust.
Heaven’s not for past or present or future.
It’s not everything that should have happened but didn’t.
Dead faces there don’t bristle with hope, there’s no whiskery
feeling of some pointful life to which you never got around.
God’s so dark in heaven, like that car in the rear-view last night
with no headlights on. God’s an irregular black hole
seen by the bending and bursting at His black edges,
all the headlights of the souls now uploading to His care.
But there, you will feel all the weight of your loves.
If their faces blur as shades, still you know them still.
A tremendous surge in your dead sleep-heart feels, sometimes
for the first time in years (this is not your first eternity),
that so much is well again, and all once gone is back,
your whole world snatched from earth awakens cold in heaven.
For won’t we both still want it again? Want it all again?
Still steaming down here like a Hot Pocket™,
darling, as our mouths meet each morning
let’s pretend flesh is paradise to come, remembered.