Expedition (For William T. Shore)

One day we’ll all find our arms can’t make the helm turn. Rings of water-stains on the hospital ceiling like the map of a doomed explorer. We’ll meet our legs and feet as the paralyzed do: strappy extravagances in pants and socks.

There’s rot in every barrel, Admiral.

Always half waiting for Jesus’ return. Now to hear a tap at the cabin window and not be able to turn your head to see if it’s Him or not.

We’ll all bite our lip like our fathers did. We’ll stay quiet and stare forward.

In the afterlife, my unredeemed grandfather sleeps with his hands on his heart. He’s made to change his own oil on the New Yorker. He puts out the barn cats, who stretch, blink their eyes. He rakes the last of the leaves on the property, where he can be watched by the nurse at her stitching. Who tells my grandfather that Jesus was a man, but with the unlimited power all men possess, that my grandfather himself possesses.

There now.

That Jesus wept, with joy, because Lazarus walked himself out, not like a corpse but winged like a glorious eagle.