A Heaven for Marion

A Heaven for Marion

If God’s engineers were to construct a heaven for Marion,

it would be a parlor of impeccable taste

nothing “too baroque.”

When she left her body, she would float up

to salmon walls and be enveloped in that skin

She would fall, soft crush, into an umber sofa

to contour her spirit's bottom

The piano would greet her

as the ghost of the living daughter

played Brahms

Her eyes would fall on each

of the possessions she never had

the Turkmeni rug, woven by women

in a land far from Maryland

in a land far from Ireland

A Chinese scroll would fold and unfold itself

revealing the sage scholar

and the adoring pupils under a tree

always under a tree

insubstantial as fennel

She could walk to the window

raise up the sash

and gather ripe honeydew melons

tomatoes and shellfish

from a magical hedge

Babies would float in and out,

the ones she lost, her Virgil and Christopher

my brothers will not cry or demand,

only smile, laugh and let themselves

be dandled and caressed to nubbins

Then when she wished to read,

they would float away in their cloud

bassinets and return on cue

Pixies, adorable and never grousing

would brush the rug

polish the wood floors

and never get underfoot

She would not have to leave heaven

Nothing would disturb her

Her TV could be on and she could

live in the soap operas

without the attendant miseries

involved in such lives

5/24/2006, Colorado Springs

revised 3/2008 Seattle

Lucy Simpson