Well, it's official. Books "proving" the existence of heaven have had one more year near the top of the charts. I mention this because I just came across a tongue-in-cheek poem I wrote as a young man -- the fledgling agnostic trying his wings. With some misgivings, I share it here.
The Resurrection of the Body
On that Last Day we'll rise up
the way the mushrooms came up
last night, all at once, after the
long rain. This is what we'll be:
a thread of spittle coughed up
by the grave, a jowl of skin,
a manikin for a suit of pink
wrinkled flesh, a pouch of bones.
It will be enough. If the body must
last forever, let it be without
the spirit, that sticky chlorophyll
called conscience, that candy-man.
Prick and cunny, palm and tongue,
we’ll spring up overnight like
phantoms, unbutton pocketsful
of chicken parts, shake out the
soft bones, jitterbug in zoot suits
of empty skin, strut and preen.