(Meeting called by Michael,

Gabriel on notes)

If Hell is empty, then Heaven is, too–

Every illustrious soul, every dearly departed, 

has started down God’s mountain,

picnic baskets swinging. 

The angels try to understand;

they gnash their teeth

of pearly white. 

Everything had been perfect–

the picnic tables antless, 

on every red and white tablecloth, every checker 

checkmarked.

How could the humans foresake paradise

a second time?

How could they abandon 

the flawless infrastructure

of their apotheosis?

In Purgatory, Judas and Jesus

embrace, wheezing 

from the walk.

“Do you remember–” says Judas.

“Do you remember–we were so young–

that time, with the fig tree?”

Jesus laughs, turns cheek to hide 

the trembling of his lip.

“Would you like

another glass of wine?”

Michael looks at the empty chair

in the Celestial Rose Conference Room.

If Lucifer were still there, 

he would crack a joke.

He would rest his hand on Michael’s shoulder, 

plasmatic eyes gleaming.

He would say, Cheer up, Michael. 

Heaven was good enough–

for government work.

Maybe the picnic tables 

should have had more ants. 

In the river, Michael’s reflection is 

backlit. Behind him, the locks on Heaven’s gates

gleam, pearlescently.

In the empty picnic grounds, 

he contemplates 

the slow unfurling

of a single, white 

wood iris.