There’s
no weather in the afterworld,
no snowy hills, like breasts on a young bride,
no need for umbrellas, don’t leave
the window sash up, no breeze flaps the curtains—
why
wear skirts, why hats,
a couple could lie all day in the shade
of the temple pillars, listen
to the green fountains—
they
will never need to let go
their clasped hands, reach up, they will
never hold their palms to the sun,
blocking the light from their eyes—
Jennifer Swanton Brown