Written by Brandon James O’Neil
Heaven, perhaps, is
a push of petals through
the bud skin
The afterlife a
flowering of
something rare but
something common too
An orchid
bought at
a drugstore florist
When I die, will
my flowers be full, like
yours astounding too
subway grime and smell
of piss exhaust heading
home from work?
Who like you
embraces my bursting
soul flower eagerly
envisioning the hall
table or countertop where
against a mirror my beauty
will be admired?
Is there even an
embrace? Is there a
mirror? Or is there only
buds retreating and
collapse and never-
again blooming?
Heaven, I hope
is a push of petals but
my dear I do not know
if the petals will ever
open much less if the A train
arrive to carry you home