What happens to our memories
when the great pulse
stops.
Is it like a candle
tipping over in Alexandria,
the papyrus of our lives
just blackened smoke—
or do we ascend into a library,
one with a glass dome,
wingback chairs,
each book a garden of ink?
In this afterworld
librarians mend broken spines,
they point to shelves of light,
and store our pain
deep
in the basement,
down where the spiders grow.
Dictionaries are swollen,
plump, ripe with energy.
Only one word is censored:
that four-lettered obscenity, shhh.
So we author ourselves,
turning the heavy pages,
the calligraphy of our souls
—scratched—
into woodpulp and rags.
Our stories may not be written to last,
but let us embrace the unknown,
let us open our arms like a book.
