Truth be told, it offers the best
view of Kolob. Father’s light
filters down
through a calico dome
made rich by harvest orange
but cooled with borrowed blue.

The Son’s presence reflects,
forming a light sculpture
of angels frozen happy
in a next-to-last dance—
be it swing, pop, square,
or Viennese waltz,
according to pairs
of eyes gazing,
envious.

Almost perfectly,
polished marble floor supports
the soft steps of the few
who move from their places,
in a ballroom with a corner
for each attendee.

These are they who need
an eternity to grasp
the fairness of damnation.

These are they whose eyes
gloss over party platters
piled high with meat,
grinning awkwardly
at exes—
each hearing clarion
memories
they can no longer see—
bloodless hearts still beating.

Some who dressed down
speak of their rescue,
bantering in relieved tones
around a party fountain—
its milky punch trickling
but never failing.

Others wearing scarlet
boutonnieres and corsages
stand in the dimmest light
they can find, holding lambskin
suitcases containing robes
they’ll never wear, hearing
a Savior whisper in their ears:
It’s okay. You can put it down.

And if they ever do,
they’ll pass with certitude
through diamond doors,
leaving faint blemishes
on the knobs. Then,
never fearing another fall
into blackness, they’ll minister
gleefully among the stars.


Poet’s Notes:

Reactions to this poem are invited. This is the second in a planned trio. The first poem is posted here: Thy Telestial Kingdom Come.

Photo by Pixabay Pexels.com.