If there is one, 

the afterlife opening 

will flare

like a lens of light, small,

slick and honeysuckle-quick,

no wider

than the sun’s last

horizon sliver —

slippery and sudden,

drawing you in.

Or maybe it will open

dark and wide

a mouth of smoke yawning –

the hollow echo where you waited

before you were born, 

between breaths.

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