I plan next summer’s garden in my head,
where the bluebells will go,
the sunflowers, with the round faces

and bright yellow haloes
of the martyrs in religious paintings,
legions of bloodstained saints

whose lush wounds gleam like wet mouths,
and over here, I’ll put pink speedwell,
or maybe purple petunias,

weeping trumpets brokenly announcing
joyful tidings, and over there, the lilies,
licks of orange flame, because what’s heaven

without a vestigial concept of hell,
all the windows in the house vibrating
to the rumble of ecstatic thunder,

the mammoth heartbeat of God, if God existed.

Howie Good