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.
Micaela Walley is an MFA student at the University of Baltimore. Her work can be found in Huffpost, Hobart, ENTROPY, Pidgeon Pages, and more. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend—Chunky, the cat. If you’d like to follow her on social media, her handles are @micaela_poetry.