“ a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams, 
‍ ‍his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream”
— Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird”

‍she loses her bones along the way. 
a rib through the belly button – one 
after another until her heart’s no longer 

caged. from each ear canal drops 
the mallei, then incudes, then stapes. 
ashes form upon soft landings: unplanted 

things leaving nothing for after-hands 
to bury. time unwinds. tock-tick-tock. 
the unlaid egg splits and through her 

parched-parted lips / weeded from 
her vacant chamber / a red-winged 
blackbird chirrups a dirge she cannot 

hear; its deep-throated notes burst 
into dry mist / coil soul-tight chains 
about both quarter-thin wrists. so condemned, 

this rough mountain she climbs offers 
no reprieve – crescents of glass, green 
acid tongues, thumbtack sleeves. pain 

re-cycled. with each quicksand step, 
phalanges slip through slivers at the 
curves of ten toes. uncoordinated, drunk-

awkward. a puppet without a string. 
she trips over her loose coat of skin. 
stands without weight on shapeless 

feet beside the barbed wire crimson gate. 
newly assigned grave warder / unwilling 
observer of the constant tableau unspooling 

below / reluctant recorder of frivolities 
that remain always beyond her grasp. row 
seven: tattooed dreams dust-sweeping / dust-

swirling through her fossilized curls, 
brushing kisses on his upturned phantom 
lips. and see! row three-eleven: slim shadow 

vines tangoing ’tween unmade beds, 
calligraphic shouts seeping like spilled oil 
from beneath stone pillows. rows further on: 

joyous yip-yips, mews, caws of un-
tethered adventurers. loyal old souls 
eager to please, to love – a reward she’s 

incapable of receiving. her sole 
nourishment: this black-spoked pill 
that tills her throat, climbs her tongue, 

spirals out her mouth, and cracks 
the ground. this plague, her nightmare. 
connections severed. words cast to oblivion. 

forced to stand a thousand years of regret, 
she chokes on pain re-cycled: no breath, no voice 
to request reprieve, no matter how she longs to scream. 

The moon steps down from her grey throne
to bathe in a river. 
A lion is learning how to eat grass
because his neighbour the billy goat
threw a party and all species can come.

The fish swims upstream without a bodyguard,
humans are fed up with their solitary life of being a predator,
and now eat peace for breakfast. 

So this is utopia,
the wolf and the lamb lying side by side in a field of dreams! 

The plants opening their cuticles
to the warm embrace of the sun like a god child
wanting milk from the nipples of her goddess mother.

Sharks and Whales opens a pub downstream,
Jaguars wear gloves over their paws to grab a beer.

Death folds up like a mat and dies.

“It’ll be a minute,” St. Peter said, apologetically. “System’s slow today.”

I peeked over his shoulder. “You’re using Excel?”

He grinned. “I’m a big-picture guy. Details aren’t my thing. This—” he gestured at the spreadsheet filling his display “—helps me keep all the numbers straight.”

“I just figured—” I waved my hands at the scene with the fluffy clouds and all “—Heaven, you know. You wouldn’t need worldly human technology to see who gets in.”

St. Peter leaned back and crossed his hands over his belly. “I am human too, strictly speaking. And, frankly, modern worldly apps get the job done a lot better than the abacuses and whatnot we used in the old days.”

I squinted at his screen. “I used to be something of a spreadsheet jock myself back before…you know.”

St. Peter nodded sympathetically, his long white beard wagging.

“Mind if I take a look?” I asked.

“Be my guest. It could be a while before you go anywhere.” He partially stifled a chuckle. “Wherever that might be.”

I swiveled the screen around and grabbed his mouse. St. Peter leaned back and closed his eyes. I guess even saints like a nap.

After a minute of clicking, I nudged him.

“Huh? What?” He spluttered and sat up.

“I think I found something,” I said. “This formula in G42. It sums cells F16 through I16. The ones labeled ‘Faith,’ ‘Repentance,’ ‘Baptism’ and ‘Biblical Knowledge.’”

St. Peter nodded. “G42 is the bottom line. If it lights up green when we do your calculation, you’re good. If it’s red.” He shook his head.

My G42 was red, I noted. “Well, there’s an error. The formula doesn’t include J16 for ‘Deeds: Good and Evil.’ Pretty sure that should be in there.”

St. Peter yawned. “Possibly.”

“Look, you don’t want buggy gatekeeping, right? And this is an easy fix. May I?” I gestured toward his seat.

He stood and silently pointed to the keyboard.

“Just be a second,” I said. I clicked on G42 and added J16 to the cells summed to produce the bottom line.

“All done,” I said. “Okay to recalculate?”

St. Peter nodded so I punched the F5 key. G42 switched from red to green. I smiled.

“Looks like the system’s back up,” St. Peter said. “Also, you’re good.” He pulled out a scroll and pressed a rubber stamp on it.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me the scroll and waving me toward the Pearly Gates.

Just then I heard a rumble coming from the Gates. A huge crowd appeared on the other side of the portal. They were coming this way fast, faces wearing expressions of surprise, upset and anxiety. Looking like they maybe were being pushed from behind.

As they approached the Gates, I noticed out of the corner of my eye some activity back the way I had just traveled. It was another crowd, even larger, rushing upward. Their faces showed joy mixed with anger. Serious anger.

“Is this what it looks like?” I asked St. Peter.

“You tell me,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “When we changed that formula the system updated the key number retroactively. For everybody who’s ever been through here. Whether they went that way—” I pointed through the Gates “—or the other.” I pointed down.

“Could be,” St Peter said.

“So a bunch of people who got through the Gates are now getting sent back, and some more who got turned away are now getting promoted.”

St. Peter started to look uneasy. “Change it back,” he said, eyeing the hordes rapidly converging on the Gates. “And hurry.”

“I’m not doing it.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“A social justice warrior, are you?” St. Peter started looking seriously god-like, ready to shoot thunderbolts from his eyes.

“Not at all,” I said. “If I change the formula back, my key number will be red. And I don’t want to be sent down there.” I pointed toward the mob rapidly climbing toward us. “Especially since I don’t deserve it.”

The faster members of both crowds had reached the portal and milled around, some trying to get in and others trying not to be pushed out. Tempers were rising. Wing feathers were getting ruffled. Harps were being gripped like weapons.

“Change it back,” St. Peter said. “I’ll overlook your G42.”

I shook my head. “I need more. I want access to all the systems you’re using up here.” I pointed toward the display between us. “If they’re anything like this mess, they all have major bugs. And I already know the way you pick which prayers to answer is completely messed up.”

“Fine,” he said. “Just fix this now!”

I typed fast, undoing the changes I’d made, and hit recalculate. Instantly, the crowds stopped jostling and began filing back the way they’d come.

“Whew,” said St. Peter. “That was too close for me.”

I waved and walked through the Gates, whistling. The best part was, Pete’s laptop was still running Windows 10. By the time I got them upgraded to 11, I’d be calling the shots in Heaven.

Her architecture beckons, a glorious estate
soft lips, cold cheeks, bid you– play the auction
she could be your necrotic love, you could take her home, today.

The state mediates death– and not only today–
places for sale what has been collected, calls it the estate
never expecting careful buyers to come to auction…

It thrills you with the commodity, life! It does, the auction,
tempting a purchase as irrevocable as a final breath, only available today
invites you to dream of the asphodel lands: you and your bride’s new estate.

Estate auction, today!

after Joshua Bennett

A for Attic, naturally, Always something Awful About the Attic. But Below, too, in the Basement or Back Bedroom, Badness Blooms. C for Closed off, Cloistered. D for Deadlocked Door. E for Eventuality, it can/will happen Everywhere. Fear, Fight, Flight or that third thing, oh right, Freeze, Freeze and Find g!d in the way of Finality. G for Gone and Grave, ‘Grave’ itself another word for Garden. Hydrangea, Hosta, Human Hand Hitched out the dirt. Imparted Impermanent Interment. Jellied, Jammed, and Jarred. Kept like an excess of fruit. Lost Like an excess, too. Made, Misused, Misplaced. N for Nowhere to go Now. O for Only that Old Obituary remembers. P for Plucked and Prohibited from all but Pacing Perimeters. Q for Quietly, Quietly (never Quiet enough). R for Restless Revenant, Ruining nights for the current Resident: Sleepless, Spooked, Suspicious, Sitting on the porch Stairs. T for Terrible Tenancy, Truly, a Total nightmare. Unable to Unwind, Under no delusion that they’re Unwatched here. Very Valiantly Vying to drive your Vestiges out. W for WHO are you WHAT the fuck do you WANT? X for Xray eye scan. Y for Yard conceals You. Zip the Zigzag edge of their fear to you.

A for Attachment.