Would going to hell
be any less hellish
if we went—not
in a hand basket—but
in a foot basket
or in a hand cart?
How about in a purse
woven from lost eyelashes
or better yet, from stray
pubic hairs that litter the tub
with telltale spirals
of someone else’s desire?
Have you ever noticed
how going to hell in a hand
basket is a lot like going down
the drain? A horrible,
unavoidable sucking
sensation not unlike
being born. Face it.
Leaving the womb
was your first and only
entry into a hell entirely
not of your own making.
It was all laid out for you.
All future hells blossom
into an all-too-familiar
reminder of that first
wrenching separation
when you had to undock
from the mothership.
You know full well that—
given the choice—you would
have stayed tucked up in there
full of eternity (and then some),
happily floating in your amniotic
ocean of love and mercy,
not in search of a savior,
or a pleasure cruise, or a warm,
wet paradise. Yet safe
in your palm, you’d hold
that coin for Charon’s boat
to cross the River Styx.
