Heaven

Libera Me

Deliver me , Lord, from the threat

of heaven, from becoming the angel

who is not me, who smiles

faintly, fondly

before shrugging me off

like some stiff, quaint pupal case:

the battered leather jacket of the flesh,

evidence of misspent youth.

Grant me, Lord, this last request:

to wear bikie colours in heaven,

a grub among the butterflies.

And this: to take all memories with me,

all memories that are me,

intact, seized first

like snapshot albums

from a burning house.

Answer, Lord, these prayers,

for I would rather

be nothing

than improved.

Peter Goldsworthy