Afterlife

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.