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Michael Van Walleghen's Poetry
THE AFTERLIFE
Because all of it happens
at the speed of light
the soul naturally lingers
curious, appalled I think
near the impetuous corpse--
and as for all that whispering
from beyond the bright doorway
let them wait. I remember
when I was about ten or so
hitting my head on the ice
then waking up in the hospital
anonymous and all attention
beside a dead man. The man
had a hole in his neck--
I could identify the windpipe
but various other things
were in the dark. His hand
was close to my hand, one foot
hung off the cart--Someone
a name that would come to me
had simply dumped him there
slumped in his tangled IVs
like a let-go puppet. He knew
precisely who I was. The logic
of his bloodshot, puppet eye
was inescapable. The windows
too, were inescapable, black
the coldest dream of winter--
All the rivers were frozen--
trashcans wandered in the street
like tumble weed. A child's name
in fact, might wander years
without a coat out there
without a hat or even socks
and I tried not to think of him
huddled under the overpass
or sleeping in doorways
too cold to speak.