When I have fears that I may
become nothing, unaware as grey smoke
or a stone on the sunless side of a hill,
lacking the comfort that belief gives
those who are certain
of that long whoosh
of resurrected souls rising
toward reward, then even punishment
would be something.
The Righteous to the right,
me, of course, to the left.
At least lucky not to be
required to judge myself.
Whatever the penalties,
far preferable than an end
to everything.

As for Heaven, I’m not wholly sure
I would want flowers
that never wilt, everybody
always smiling or an easy supply
of chocolates and mashed potatoes.
The other side of the coin
makes life precious,
longing and desire—
the body and all that
goes with it.

And how could I recognize my parents?
Would we all look as we did
when we were loved?
Their patient, grieving faces
as in the nightly reruns of regrets
before sleep, finally to dream
those same sins of omission.
Perhaps to cease to be
might be better after all
and not to hope without hope
that I might hear God say:
You are forgiven.