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The two airheads you meet in heaven

In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lotus-Eaters

Jostling wakes you to your obligation,
phonetics sicken, subside. Beautiful, ready to take
you around, they accustom you, sweep
you out. You coincide. You try
to control their minds by speaking. Heaven
smells like hyacinth and like amaryllis.
Looks like a woman putting litter into large
bags, like a woman putting out geraniums, like people
coming toward you from the brushed side
streets. Each new year folded
here is a tender possibility in a print
dress and terrible earrings. Good points, pie charts,

laurels, bloodshed: what’s the story in heaven?
Where is it true? No one talks
about the circumstances or acts that brought
them here. The moons of your two guides’
nails are supposed to give all the light
you want. To open
the prior bring it close: people for example
ran tanks over people. That belongs inside
the shining rim with you. What’s the story? Reduced
to perfection. Your hostesses flutter, soft and
firm as your own good. Bring the edges together.

Kate Schapira lives in Providence, RI, where she writes, teaches, and organizes Publicly Complex, a reading series featuring innovative work by soon-to-be-famous writers. Her chapbooks include Case Fbdy. and The Painting (Rope-A-Dope Press, 2008), Phoenix Memory (horse less press, 2007) and The Love of Freak Millwaysand Tango Wax (Cy Gist Press, forthcoming 2009). She’s proud of recent acceptances to and appearances in A Sing Economy (Flim Forum Press), Narwhal (Cannibal Books), Aufgabe, Denver Quarterly, Action Yes and Otoliths.



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