for Jack Ridl
My friend Jack is really St. Peter.
I trust him. He has a knack
for finding the good in people,
for bringing it out. He has a way
of creating Eden out of a blank page,
out of a living room, out of pixels.
He knows the gate to paradise
is right here. He knows how to say,
“Fuck death.” He knows how to love
the world, how to hold those
who need to be held, how to care.
I am not always so sure I believe
in God, but I always believe in Jack.
Sometimes when I ache, when
I don’t know how to write another word,
Jack will send me a note. He’ll say
something like, “Grief is an ambush,”
and then, just knowing he understands,
I go on. I watch the willows turn yellow.
And Jack is here, too, holding open the pearly gate
so that heaven will slip through to this world.
He’s got his cup of coffee ready, and one for you
and me, too, to toast to all the beauty that is,
to all the beauty still left to be made.
