Nevertheless its steps can be heard…
—Pablo Neruda, “Nothing But Death”
In case of accident, call a priest,
or so reads the back of
my Saint Christopher medallion.
And I want to engrave:
Or 911. Or an ambulance,
but not just the priest.
I know the priest would come,
offer everlasting life and pray
over my body, but I’m betting
on the medic, the EMT, the blonde girl
who works weekends at the fire station
to keep her daughter in private school.
I put my faith in the hands of these saviors
before I’ll kiss the white collar
of the man who loves God the same way I love life.
I’m not ready to be called back. Not now.
Maybe when my body begins to crumble
and needs every speck of energy to leave
a chair or revise a poem, then I will say:
Just the priest please.
But for now, call anyone
you think could help, anyone
who could pull me from the land of afterlife
where “eternal bliss” sounds lovely,
roaming the clouds with dead relatives
or wandering a white fog
near the wings of a friend who died too young.
I imagine yards of cotton unrolling.
God is remodeling the space
for the eighty-million new souls
who will visit this year, souls climbing
the new spiral staircase.
It will be enchanting to encounter people
who’ve passed before me. I’ll make a point
to ask Neruda about death
dressed as a broom, as I keep believing I’ll be swept up.