In the aftermath, there will be no need for coffee or vibrators.
Rain will fall unencumbered from an unseen sky and the body
that longed for pleasure will appreciate fire, maybe brimstone,
and while in the clouds, we meet the Lord in the air, we long for
wi-fi, someone’s lips on our neck, how we remember all
we ought to forget. The body, with its small, urgent needs—
something holy, its own inward miracle. Sealed secret of the self,
O soul without anchor, how little we know, how little we expected
—a text tone and words on our screen, I didn’t think it would end
like this, we wrap our rapture in bedsheets, our living bodies dying
cell by discharged cell, even as we register the smell of toast, recall
the flash of knives: molten butter, spilled light, flooding all the gaps—
Photo by Sergey Kochkarev, used and adapted under CC.