Printer Friendly

On the First Day after the Last Day of Judgment.

On the First Day after the Last Day of
Judgment

   Is the afterlife full of heavenly pink thrum? Do ectoplasmatic
   ladies drift by in Victorian widow's weeds

   tapping the walls and rattling tambourines? Was Swedenborg
   right? Madame Blavatsky? The Sufis

   or the Zoroastrians? Is the Holy Ghost an upside-down bird

   suspended over God's radiant throne? So is there a stairway?
   A ferryman? A pit? Is William Blake allowed

   to blaze up through the rotten lid of his coffin? Does forever
   fit in a spoon? So did they say anything

   about Final Days? Will we meet again, standing in long lines
   with dirt in our hair, sneaking looks

   at the nametags during those awkward reunions

   down at baggage claim? But despite the usual airport hassle

   perhaps now we'd be happy? With the judging done, things
   might be better: swords sheathed and the blood

   wiped off their boots, the Four Horsemen clomp by, tucked-in
   and pleated, as bored as state troopers

   on New Year's afternoon while angels with clipboards assign
   bunks, shouting to be heard over the random

   trumpet blasts and the din of a million choirgirls, all equally
   pretty, eyes batting heavenward, their tiny bosoms

   transmogrified into chaste bumps

   beneath the gossamer of their silvery robes. The lion pads in,

   embarrassed by the incredible stupidity

   of his new friends the sheep bawling after him with pasture
   gossip and shit-matted tails. William Blake's soul smothers

   William Blake's shriven corpse in a long-lost sister's embrace,
   brushing the coffin splinters and mold from

   his rickety collar bones. Winnowed and broken, the damned

   stir underfoot, taking turns to rattle manhole covers and jiggle
   the basement door. Whoever it is playing

   Heaven's golden keyboard yanks the knob labeled vox humana

   to waltz Father Adam toward the exit

   with Lucy the Australopithecus in a hyena-fur bikini snapping
   at his heels, muzzled and leashed, slobbering and curbed ...
COPYRIGHT 2012 Big River Association
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2012 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Hudson, Michael Derrick
Publication:River Styx
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 1, 2012
Words:309
Previous Article:The rain of time.
Next Article:Snowpocalypse.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2021 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters |