Monday, 23 July 2018

A poem by Joan Mazza

In the Afterlife 

I imagine my mother walking up the final path
laughing with Lucille Ball. They died a day apart,
but surely chatted in those throngs of dead, jostling
their way to the gate I see open for every caste.

When my father took his life at the height
of summer 1987, the husband of Joan Rivers
did the same—one day later. Did they discuss
what drove them to see death as spite?

Did they have regrets? Speculate on the impact
for their children and grands, who might view
this as a model for desperate times? In fact,

I don’t believe in an afterlife in heaven’s stars
or its flaming alternative for all eternity. Childhood
indoctrination left its mark, if not a scar,

so I can sometimes hear my ex-husband, dead
before his parents, welcome their arrival,
offering a beer. His mother, wits re-stitched,
will no doubt say, You’re here first? I heard said

not long after, their other son was dead from cancer.
Too soon! ancestors cry. The temptation’s
strong to have fantasies of reunions, gatherings
in some rosy, great beyond, all questions answered.

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has twice been a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia, where she writes poetry and does fabric and paper art.

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