For A Friend Who Doesn’t Believe in Heaven
I tell her about the mansions on tree-lined streets
and the curated parks where the deceased
reunite with their dogs. Together once more,
they play blissfully with no need to scoop up anything.
But she believes at death her molecules will hitch
a ride on asteroids and fly around the stars.
She seems content with no resting place,
identity, or friends and family.
I explain that while she’s exploring the galaxy,
I ‘ll picnic with Shakespeare and Frost
who confirm that life is a diverging road
in a tragi-comedy. But, I promise her, every night
I’ll scan the moon-filled sky, waiting
to catch her essence floating by.
When I gather enough of her particles,
I’ll take them to my mansion’s roof
where we’ll mingle our energies
and commiserate about our lives on earth.
Then I’ll offer her a choice: stay here
with my new friends and play with poetry
or spread her sparkle throughout the universe.
“See that Painted Lady down the street?”
I try a desperate ploy. “It’s built for you
and every dog you shared love with.”
She pauses, as if to reassess her belief,
so I throw her a smile and tempt her
with a ring of polished keys.
Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon where she delights in gardening, feral cats, and backyard birds. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout the U.S., Europe, and Australia and her sixth collection, Splitting Open the Word, was released by The Poetry Box in March 2025 For more: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.
Amethyst Review 