THE AFTERLIFE

Because all of it happens
at the speed of light

the soul naturally lingers
curious, appalled I think

near the impetuous corpse…
and as for all that whispering

from beyond the bright doorway
let them wait. I remember

when I was about ten or so
hitting my head on the ice

then waking up in the hospital
anonymous and all attention

beside a dead man. The man
had a hole in his neck…

I could identify the windpipe
but various other things

were in the dark. His hand
was close to my hand, one foot

hung off the cart…Someone
a name that would come to me

had simply dumped him there
slumped in his tangled IVs

like a let–go puppet. He knew
precisely who I was. The logic

of his bloodshot, puppet eye
was inescapable. The windows

too, were inescapable, black
the coldest dream of winter…

All the rivers were frozen—
trashcans wandered in the street

like tumble weed. A child's name
in fact, might wander years

without a coat out there
without a hat or even socks

and I tried not to think of him
huddled under the overpass

or sleeping in doorways
too cold to speak.