heaven to be unhurtable

.

When I’d picture my death, I would be lying on my back,

and my spirit would rise to my belly-skin and out

like a sheet of wax paper the shape of a girl, furl

over from supine to prone and like the djinn’s

carpet begin to fly, low,

over our planet—heaven to be

unhurtable, and able to see without

cease or stint or stopperage,

to lie on the air, and look, and look,

not so different from my life, I would be

sheer with an almost not sore loneless,

looking at the earth as if seeing the earth

were my version of having a soul. But then

I could see my beloved, sort of standing

beside a kind of door in the sky—

not the door to the constellations,

to the pentangles, and borealis,

but a tidy flap at the bottom of the door in the

sky, like a little cat-door in the door,

through which is nothing. And he is saying to me that he must

go, now, it is time. And he does not

ask me, to go with him, but I feel

he would like me with him. And I do not think

it is a living nothing, where nonbeings

can make a kind of unearthly love, I

think it’s the nothing kind of nothing, I think

we go through the door and vanish together.

What depth of joy to take his arm,

pressing it against my breast

as lovers do in a formal walk,

and take that step.


—Sharon Olds 

.