My handbasket must be ready
by now, parked somewhere near
a fiery maw. Surely, the dead
musicians are all there, laughing
about arm-length spoons. Hold it
on the bottom, you fucking idiot, barks
Freddie Mercury. All those pagans
must be relieved to laze about,
unhunted by the desert god. It’s not
so bad. It is, after all, the only place
you’ll never hear a sermon. No one
will wear those torturous denim
dresses stitched with Noah’s ark.
I never wanted paradise, which I
imagine as a bleach-white room
crammed with grinning host forever
singing hymns, a party that goes on
too long, even when the guests
are weary, the cheese board
has gone warm, and everyone is sick
to death of holding in their farts
all day. Pleasure is an impermanent
state–unless you have persistent
genital arousal disorder, the sufferers
of which must endure orgasm
after orgasm, even while driving
or eating sushi. I wonder if people
in heaven are forced to smile
or punished when they don’t. Or is it
like the Magic Kingdom, actors
paid to trot about, disguised as
loved ones, beaming warmth? Anyway,
I’ll be in hell, you tell me, though
I’ve yet to understand the basket,
which must surely plummet down
a chasm. A well, perhaps. Funny,
it’s almost like a greeting card:
Here in hell. Hope you’re well.

Robert Campbell is a queer poet living and writing in rural Kentucky. He is the author of the chapbooks Monster Colloquia (Hellbox publications, 2020) and In the Herald of Improbable Misfortunes (Etchings Press, 2018). His poems have appeared in The Adroit Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Columbia Poetry Review, Nashville Review, Barrow Street, and many other journals. Read more about him at robertjcampbell.wordpress.com.