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Afterlife
The afterlife must start somewhere,
said Joseph Brodsky, who opined
it must begin in Holland. Dare
to argue with a poem Brodsky signed?
I think I do, for I believe it starts
wherever we no longer are surprised
to find in those we love new parts
they play each day and have not advertised
to us, because sometimes not even they
appreciate that there’s still something new
for us to find before the skies turn gray
and afterlife is nearly overdue.
Inspired by one of my favorite poets, Joseph Brodsky, who wrote as amazingly well in English as in Russian.
Dutch Mistress
A hotel in whose ledgers departures are more prominent than arrivals.
With wet Koh-i-noors the October rain
strokes what's left of the naked brain.
In this country laid flat for the sake of rivers,
beer smells of Germany and the seaguls are
in the air like a page's soiled corners.
Morning enters the premises with a coroner's
punctuality, puts its ear
to the ribs of a cold radiator, detects sub-zero:
the afterlife has to start somewhere.
Correspondingly, the angelic curls
grow more blond, the skin gains its distant, lordly
white, while the bedding already coils
desperately in the basement laundry.
© 2005 Gershon Hepner 6/19/05
gershon hepner
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