The Afterlife

And, I want to say that in the afterlife
there is some smoke, and bullet holes
high as eye level. There are lame cats
limping loose and bells sonar
the tiny souls of mice. Dew is not
a thing. And laughter is awkward.

And I wonder why, here, the grass
is a lavender mixed with yellow
that really is a shade of red. Green
is not a thing. But still the moon.
Of course, the moon. But no—
the stars. No stars.

I want to tell you the afterlife
is full of raven shadows, chained
and unchained. And owls call
a kind of hollow that hurts
the ears. There are pillows
for such moments for protection.

I don't know why the shape
of once bodies captures light.
What light there is, through
all the smoke. The bullet hole's
a keyhole to peer through.
Or why to care is still a thing.

I've made a nest on this brink.
From here I watch the comers
come and goers go. I live on
seeds. And what air there is
amidst the smoke.

Lindsay Rockwell is poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut. She's recently published, or forthcoming in Calyx, Carve, EcoTheo Review, Gargoyle, Radar, among others. Her first collection, GHOST FIRES, was published by Main Street Rag, April 2023. She’s received fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Edith Wharton/The Mount residency. Lindsay is also an oncologist.