the afterlife

i don't think we've come close
to figuring out what happens to us
when we die. i believed in heaven when
i was a kid but now that i know 
God better i don't think he would
have any interest in judging every
individual person, that's a whole lot
of work & after all that work
you'd just have a big cloud
of people you'd have to entertain.
(imagine the small talk).

all the furniture in my apartment
was here when i got here &
the shelf by my bed reminds 
me of my grandfather. at night
when the shelf thinks i'm not
looking it begins to smell 
faintly of cigars. 

if we do come back, maybe we cycle 
our way through the world,
returning as a series of 
inanimate objects. my theory 
of this order for now is:
bookcases, chairs/sofas, beds,
& from there moving on to 
small appliances like lamps 
& down to forks 
& knives 
& spoons.

i lay in bed & wonder what
the bed's life was like. what do 
they think as they observe & 
hold the whole weight of 
my sprawled out body each night.
i toss & turn. i clutch them.
would they have loved me
motherly or loverly or otherwise?
do they sometimes wish
for another body to spend
each night with?

my other bookshelf is more 
secretive about who they were.
the structure is wobbly so 
occasionally my tea lights
drop off the top & it's hard to
fit more than a few books each
loose shelf. 

will you believe me if i tell you
that i know know all of this 
because i awoke one evening to see these 
objects all changed back. flickering
between lives. it was only a moment. 
there she was, my bookshelf; a tired
girl with stick straight hair &
thin wind chime arms. she was paging
through a book of poetry from
my shelf. i smiled at her & she scowled
as if i'd seen something i shouldn't.

i think noticed my bed, who i didn't
get a good look at, but all
i can tell you is that their
body was warm & they were crouched on
all fours to hold up mine.

now when i worry faintly about
death i try to remember my bookshelves
& bed & acknowledge all the furniture
in any given room. i look forward
to the distant future. i want to 
be a spoon. i think i have always
wanted this. pressed to
a stranger's lips as they 
sip from me for a fleeting seconds
maybe they will, in a corner of
their being, know that i was 
a boy who also ate from spoons,
who buried his face in pillows,
& stacked his shelves 
with poetry.