In My Heaven

The air would smell like tomato plants,

horse sweat, and new lipstick.

I would wear nothing but a cooking apron

to keep me moderately decent.

My vibrator would never need new batteries,

my weed jar would never be low,

and I’d never again listen to another voicemail.

I wouldn’t feel hunger,

but I’d still sprinkle sea-salt on my toast

and drink mint tea on the days

when I wanted it to be cold.

I’d always resemble how I looked

in that photo at the fair in January

when I was twenty-four.

I’d sleep in elaborate tree houses

with cats of all sizes,

no fear of waking up with swollen eyes

and a runny-nose.

Poems would be etched onto clouds,

so that you could see the words

bounce off the sunlight.

Drop-sized letters in perfect handwriting

would rain from the clouds.

There would be no music

except the cicadas and cardinals,

no perfumes, except from flowers

caressed by hummingbirds and bees,

no skyscrapers, nothing to tease

the mountains and trees.

But like astrology, psychic visions, prophecies,

religion, and every other metaphysical belief

I don’t subscribe to,

heaven is only a fantasy to indulge

while I water my basil and sweet potatoes,

watching a plane fly over me

on its way to Mexico or possibly Prague.

Emily Jalloul is pursuing her MFA in poetry at Florida International University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quest, Yellow Chair Review, Brev Spread, and The Fem, as well as others.