I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY HEAVEN TASTES LIKE MAPLE SYRUP

by | Feb 9, 2021 | Issue Nineteen, Poetry

without just saying it. God / should have nothing less than some constant pre-pancake aura about him / some cosmic eggs-and-bacon energy luring us all inside. There must be / a reason we’re supposed to want to go / there. Heaven I mean / and I can’t imagine / people seeking somewhere that doesn’t remind them / at least a little bit / of home. / Even Holiday Inns offer complimentary breakfast. / Surely all of the angels know what’s up / can produce some kind of golden griddle from thin air. / It has to be sweet, you know? / Whatever comes next. / Like a sunlit kitchen the morning after Christmas. Like brown sugar / dissolving on the tip of my tongue.

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