In My Heaven
The air would smell like tomato plants,
horse sweat, and new lipstick.
I would wear nothing but a cooking apron
to keep me moderately decent.
My vibrator would never need new batteries,
my weed jar would never be low,
and I’d never again listen to another voicemail.
I wouldn’t feel hunger,
but I’d still sprinkle sea-salt on my toast
and drink mint tea on the days
when I wanted it to be cold.
I’d always resemble how I looked
in that photo at the fair in January
when I was twenty-four.
I’d sleep in elaborate tree houses
with cats of all sizes,
no fear of waking up with swollen eyes
and a runny-nose.
Poems would be etched onto clouds,
so that you could see the words
bounce off the sunlight.
Drop-sized letters in perfect handwriting
would rain from the clouds.
There would be no music
except the cicadas and cardinals,
no perfumes, except from flowers
caressed by hummingbirds and bees,
no skyscrapers, nothing to tease
the mountains and trees.
But like astrology, psychic visions, prophecies,
religion, and every other metaphysical belief
I don’t subscribe to,
heaven is only a fantasy to indulge
while I water my basil and sweet potatoes,
watching a plane fly over me
on its way to Mexico or possibly Prague.
Emily Jalloul is pursuing her MFA in poetry at Florida International University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quest, Yellow Chair Review, Brev Spread, and The Fem, as well as others.