today I received eight letters from heaven 
some were junk but others directives

I could tell from the way they wrote my name 
whether god was happy or sad

I throw a party for god 
I do the dishes for god

this is how I elicit my own best 
behavior, not that I believe in

burning in blue flames
or in demons with fourteen names

or even that there is some procedure 
after death—still I won’t pretend—

I live mostly with the soul 
it’s the soul that bathes

that dips the lobster in butter 
that opens the blue envelopes

with a silver blade
that answers the phone call from lowes

and cries in the café
reading someone else’s bad poems

and I am always interested 
in sunning the soul

the way dh lawrence had lady chatterley 
burning up on some rock

and feeling herself thinking 
about her rockhard farmer

look, I live on a heightened plane
dine alone, get my nails shellacked pink 
and move on to houellebecq’s poems.

my soul in ballgown
no longer screams or complains
I no longer look for a muse

I’ve tamed that shrew
we sit on the balcony and cackle

illustration by Happy Burbeck

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