Friday, July 3, 2009


Is it what we make of it?

Heaven is a goal, a prize. Even angels fall.

Sometimes men use heaven in their pick-up lines and most women roll their eyes.

When praying, people roll their heads downward and when heaven is cursed, people raise up their fists in fury.

Heaven is having a job and not having a job.

Heaven is a song. No one knows the notes or how to play it, no one knows where it starts or ends.

Heaven is not ripping off a band-aid, maybe it’s the wound underneath.

My pupils shrink in the sun and I squint my eyes to see your face. You smile and heaven feels something like my eyes dilating again.

Heaven is getting enough sleep but is it a dream?

We feel heaven when love is found, when making love.

Heaven is not what keeps us alive, we have hell for that.

Heaven is a pumpkin no one picks so it shrivels and rots on the vine. It becomes a part of the ground it was born from.

Can there be heaven on Earth?

Maybe heaven isn’t our happiest moment but more like a moment we’re most ourselves.

When I’m naked in front of a mirror with a tampon string hanging between my legs, holding my tender breasts, I imagine the day a baby will grow in me. I imagine seeing heaven in his or her eyes the first time light hits them.

I don’t want to end with a cliché but maybe that’s what heaven is.