"Afterlife" by Catherine Weiss

Catherine Weiss is a poet and artist from Maine. Their poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Tinderbox, Up the Staircase, Fugue, Okay Donkey, Birdcoat, Bodega, petrichor, Counterclock, and elsewhere. Their debut full-length collection Snarl of Wildflower (Game Over Books, 2021) will be published later this year. More at catherineweiss.com.

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Afterlife

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Tonight I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
I hid in the dining room from a movie I knew would stress me out.
I am not writing a song. I am not stitching an embroidery.
In general, I like to lie face down
on the sofa. I like to eat snow.
I like when people remember I exist. I clip my nails.
I wear a ring. Sometimes I even like the sound of my own
singing voice, sweet and uncertain. My desk faces a window.
The reflection: my round face. A downturned mouth. Glasses.
I wish I believed in life after death.
I could try to brute force my way into faith.
It occurs to me I maybe heard somewhere scientific
that there is no free will because all events have already happened
and time is an illusion. I extrapolate: I will always be me.
I extrapolate further: perhaps I will be reincarnated into June of 1986,
the same. I like this. I have a nice existence.
Sure, I have spent too many nights drunk and calling my mother.
And more texting friends who don’t care to hear from me past 8.
I can’t stand myself alone. But I would like to keep on going.
What about the babies who died babies.
They remain in very small loops. The unjustness
of the theology I have made up
for my private comfort is disturbing. But since when
does anything have to be fair to be true.
Or believed. If I am its author, I must write it beautiful
and also good. I will try again.