‘Everlasting’: A Blank Verse Poem by C.B. Anderson

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Everlasting

I must admit, when I arrived in Hell
I was surprised.  Not, as you might surmise,
Because I never reckoned it was real—
And surely not because I thought I’d led
A sinless life—but owing to the fact
I did not know that I had died.  You see,
It happened in my sleep, the way one hopes
It will, with just a bit of luck.  So there
I was, awake, my vision clearing till
I saw I was surrounded by my friends,
Who looked at me expectantly, as though
They waited for a punch line to sink in.
And then I got it.  All of them were pals
Who’d predeceased me.  This was Hell, no doubt!

The way things looked, it seemed a party had
Been going on for several days at least:
Spent pizza boxes, beer cans, bottles … O
The bottles!—every one was empty, had
Been from the very first.  My friends just shrugged,
As though it didn’t matter.  Then I saw
What must have made them so indifferent to
The lack of stimulating drink.  Across
The deadness of that grand salon were half,
At least, of all the women I had kissed
Or known in any way, and many more
Besides—and they were smiling too, at me,
The latest to arrive.  Each one of them
Looked primed and in her prime.  And this was Hell?

My friends then nudged me with their quiet eyes
As if they wanted me to give it my
Best shot, and I obliged.  I took a breath
And squared my most miraculously straight
And solid shoulders, taking strides the likes
Of which I hadn’t made in twenty years.
Babes beckoned.  I pressed on.  But when I reached
That coifed and comely covey I was stunned
To find that I felt nothing, not a god-
Damned thing.  Desire was absent in my loins,
Just as desire was missing in those breasts
That once had been my heart’s delight.  I touched
Some anyway, and afterward we all
Sat down and wondered where the life had gone.

And later on I asked about a small
Concern I had, about the Lord of Dark
Supposed to rule this place, and I was told
He hardly ever comes around, but when
He does it’s only to suffice his need
For exercise—he never hassles us
And seems well pleased that we have joined him in
The static corridors of his demesne.
The boundless time apportioned us allows
A space for speculation:  What’s the point
Of brand-new bodies if we’ve been deprived
Of lust?  So how much worse could Heaven be?
Eventually our minds adjust, and we
Become resigned to the new status quo.

                                                                        First published in Northwoods Journal (2003)

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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden.  Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India.  His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.