Your Heaven Blameless
So maybe it is all for the best. Maybe it would be good if she could take your place. And she could, right? this drunk, this impossibly pleasant drunk advancing with sticky lips— one of your wayfaring daughters— her postcards slipping from her hand, her god-given but well-shaken ass for the time being still located on this earth— it would be good if she took your place. Because when I stand where I tend to on my back porch studying the bees clumped atop a fallen oak leaf at the beginning of October I know it’s a kindness you no longer appear. And when I first heard that lightning had struck your home, I felt happy then— I thought about your staggering self-confidence, and your cheekbones, & all the Dutch- like superstitions you possess. Your absence is a good thing. Your answer would have been quick— had you been asked about the man in the photograph, you would have said the beheaded is only the beheaded now not the civilian subcontractor he was. You would have claimed your love for the abducted was real, you might have added that you loved the machete, & even the hand that holds it too. Whereas she will be silent— your daughter, & everyone else not having a clue. So it’s all for the best you’re not here. You in your heaven blameless for lice in pelts and hardship backstage in the eyes of children.