Afterlife ~ Natalie Eilbert

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

There is no life after death. Why
              should there be. What on
earth would have us believe this.
              Heaven is not the American
highway, blackened chicken alfredo
              from Applebee’s nor the
clown sundae from Friendly’s. Our
              life, this is the afterdeath,
when we blink open, peeled and
              ready to ache. Years ago
my aunt banged on the steering, she
              insisted there had to be a
God, a heaven. We were on our
              way to a wedding. I would
have to sit at the same table as the
              man who saw no heaven
in me. Today I am thinking about
              Mozart, of all people, who
died at 35 mysteriously, perhaps of
              strep. What a strange cloth
it is to live. But that we came from
              death and return to it, made
different by form, shaped again back
              into anti–, anti–. On my run,
I think of Jack Gilbert, who said we
              must insist while there is still
time, but insist toward what. Why we
              must fill the void with light—
isn’t that our human insistence? But
              we drift into a distance of
distance until proximity fails, our
              name lifts away with any
future concerns, the past a flattened
              coin that cannot spin. I am
matter spun from death’s wool—and
              I bewilder the itch, I who am
I am just so happy to go.