Issue 1 Final Draft 1

and the weight of the world just the same;
would they tell me
that they’ve resolved
this is a righteous,
reconciliatory afterlife?
these Cell Ancestors–
are they beside me,
in the walls of my tall, gray building,
on the 8th floor
where I am thinking
every day, all the time, and not enough
of These Dead and others–
in this building where their cells and I
just carry on–
in this building
where I wonder–
when I, too, leave for good,
Will someone take my cells,
and nourish them as I once did?,
and put them into mice,
helping others to one day
be less sick of grief
and the weight of the world
just the same–
in this building
where I wonder
whose fingers mine will be holding
as I transition–
and if at the end, I’ll be strong enough
to squeeze back,
present enough to cry;
Will it be painful, dear,
will that love
from My Handholder
become my legacy?
and how long might my name,
the names of those who died before me,
who died 1000 feet from me
while I was finishing my coffee
across the street,
slip in and out of others’ mouths
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