Untitled.

• by Joye L. Henrie

  If hell froze over, I shall not desire a visit
  To a place where the flesh is bitter
  I couldn't abide by the depths of the snow
  where breath sputters a dance of muted life
  And the joints of bones rattle apart
  to leave a flaccid feed sack of a body.
  
  I'd rather delight in eternal damnation
  with hot fires roaring on the circumference of my abode
  (Sitting with my fellow sinners)
  roasting Smores in the scorching flames
  and singing utopian camp songs from a yesteryear.
  
  A preference - distinct - for the antonym
  where I don capped sleeves and sandals.
  For tattered quilts (while aesthetically pleasing),
  never quite fit the bill.
  
  Instead I'd drift to my land of slumber
  wiping away pools of sweat
  Rather than fight frozen lashes in a desolate blizzard
  under mountains of heavy cotton and wool.
  
  A sheet of ice permits no life
  (no singing birds nor chirping of crickets);
  Fingers of rigid purple provide no warmth
  and my back breaks, shoveling an eternity of snow.
  
  I can live without the cold face of a snowman
  without sledding down a hill
  without blades on a frozen pond
  without a bitter and bracing wind.
  
  Yes, if heaven holds winters, then I shall pass
  (and forfeit angelic wings).
  I shall prefer to camp out with Apollyon
  by the glow of a crackling fire,
  graciously thanking him for the invitation to his eternal party.
  We'd gather 'round the bonfire
  to tell stories of when heaven froze over.
  

• 
  © 2004 Joye L. Henrie
  
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