Depiction of the Afterlife as a Frantic Search for Car Keys

 

It happens to you suddenly, a dagger dissecting through your stupor. Just a moment earlier, you were elsewhere, meticulously planning the groceries, drafting a retort from the comfort of your hatchback. You wonder how you got here. Your hands near the ignition, empty, hovering by a thin, metallic switch. Then, they’re rummaging through the hollow of your pocket, groping the air like spider legs, seconds away from death. But they’re not there. Not slumming in the shadowed tufts of carpet or glaring up from the upholstery. It suddenly dawns on you what happened, so you’re running toward the house, rewinding strips of memory. You should’ve left by now. Instead, you’re gliding past the doorway, countertops, refrigerator. You should have left by now. Your mind flips through a glossary of mistakes, & you’re cursing, hurling spittle with the couch cushions, second hands turning in the air. The gift card you lost, expired. The girl you should’ve kissed. Headlights are boring through the window, urging you to hurry. You remember that your family is waiting, going on without you, their laughing teeth suffused as if with starlight. But you can’t go on. You can’t. You know that you’re here, in the dark, for a reason. You just haven’t found it yet.

 

 

March of Progress

 

When the country was polled on the topic

of “manliest hobby,” a holiday was declared

for woodworking. Not your typical

bird house assembly or spindling of dowels,

but the ultra-masculine, forestry-like task

of carving totems into hundred-year-old trees.

The digital storefronts immediately sold out

of flannels, & for a while, mustache wax

was the new heroin. A few years later,

the poll was repeated & blacksmithing won out,

prompting another trend in facial hair.

Bouncers replaced ID verification

with flashing a blister. The only problem was,

the people being polled lacked conviction.

Results changed frequently, from home brewing

to Irish-style boxing to the art of chucking spears.

There was no choice, it seemed.

The men of the world had to conform.

But reports began to emerge of a stargazing club,

first with the old, who did not care,

& then with the middle-aged, who became interested

at last, in being true to themselves. Music was heard,

the kind with little brass bells & harmonicas.

Tambourines were sold at farmers markets,

& the swelling of ornithologists

encouraged everyone to choose a favorite bird,

& to memorize its song. There were still manly men,

but they were mostly relieved, as fathers,

that they could once again take pleasure in rainbows

or the pinkish hue of babies. It was even said,

in some cases, a tear would fill their eyes

& swing down like a fabulous necklace,

which danced & sparkled in the sunlight.