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.


Sean Enright lives and works as a speechwriter in Maryland. His poems have appeared in Threepenny Review, Triquarterly, and other literary journals. Enright's play about the Lincoln assassination, The Third Walking Gentleman was a semifinalist in the 2007 National Playwright’s Contest at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center. His 2014 book of poems, Bob Dylan Sleeping, is available on Amazon.
tags: Poetry, Poetry & Fiction   
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