Plausible Heaven
By Rosemarie Dombrowski

Grandma always wore babooshkas
on Sunday, her gray hair
roped around her head the way
rosary beads
exsanguinate the fingers.
Her little room was churchly, too:
all green beans
and provolone cheese,
a drawer of saintly scapulars,
the collection of self-laminated clovers
taped to the closet door.

And surrogate grandpa Allen,
so beautifully distinct
in outlaw bearding,
humming Buddhist prayers
while dropping acid
and cavorting (man on man)—
the indistinguishable smells of
moon and sun, the barely recognizable
new-world
west-coast
barometric pressure of the hour.

And so long as granny
didn’t know the details,
they’d both wear scarves and
fixate on devotional tunes,
their voices slightly flat before the altar:

that unavoidable union of
lick and clover
near the epicenter of
resurrection—some undisclosed,
deserted lot
between Haight and Kansas City.

My prayer (and grandma please forgive me)
of togetherness tonight, my
mindful, starving vision at eleven:

Allen (with his glasses) reading
letters of devotion,
twigs of wisdom
that they’ve likely shared up there;

excreted into pots outside my Phoenix door.

Back to Contents