right hand pointing

Part of me wants to believe memory saves

everything in some Smithsonian of the soul,

like the Akashic records helping Edgar Cayce

remember Atlantean life in perfect detail.

Prehistoric ferns and painted tribes of frogs

pressed in the limestone pages of God’s brain

seduce me with hope—Aardvark to Zygote

safe in some encyclopedia already bound

big bangs ago. But there was no Atlantis

and except for George Romero, dead is dead.

Tint all the graveyards you want with stained glass,

death is just an echo waiting for a sound.

There’s nothing but an empty church in heaven.

A spray of stars I don’t believe in.