When We Die, We Don’t Go to Heaven—

instead, we land upon the nebulous shores
of the Andromeda; her arms open into spirals
of blue blinking one trillion light bulbs for
the auspicious occasion of your arrival.

welcome to Messier 31, also known as
NGC 224, or among its shapeless residents,
Solar System 2.0 where fumes from hungry
ghost festivals build our atmosphere and we

breathe incense even though we have no
lungs. they were right when they said that burnt
offerings of cars and prada bags cross the afterlife.
this is our second coming. our collective heaven

and hell. standing by to witness our old world
unfold, our children grow old, and burst into the
ashes that they were once made of, going god
only knows where. in here, we do nothing but

wait, until 4.5 billion years later, we find our
astral plane collide, this afterlife with the actual
life. if we last that long. after all, entropy is all
that remains across all of the universe.

in here, we wait. we, observers of the worlds.
breathless astronauts. limbless historians. this
will take time. existence allows no space for
forgiveness, knows neither death nor origin.

you were wrong, darling; so for now, get yourself
an earth-line, call your parents. ask them to
burn you an iphone, some cigarettes, and the bunch
of pills you took to escape there. we’ll be here


Jocelyn Suarez is only sometimes a poet. Actually a nurse, she gathers inspiration from her experience at work, delving into the psychosocial intricacies of human relationships and expounding on issues such as death and human suffering. She has been included in a couple of SingPoWriMo anthologies and has participated in various spoken word events. She hopes to be able to write more poetry beyond the month of April and maybe even adopt a cat.

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