In heaven, I believe, even our deaths are forgiven.
—Dunstan Thompson
Who could sustain such pale plentitude
and not want to shake the knopped white blossoms
from the swarthy branches.
The petals seem more parchment, and more pure,
in her upright phalanges
with a box of soap flakes, tackling the mud-cake
somebody made on the quarter-sawn floor.
Just when we think we’ve been punished enough,
there’s a bounty to contend with—
she’s at the spinet, now, and every key’s a plunker.
She hasn’t had it tuned since the flood.
Yes, she really troubles heaven with her deaf singing.
But after all, it’s heaven.
Even death will be forgiven.