Jean LeBlanc

Fishing in Heaven
			for Harold

I'm not convinced you believed in heaven,
but the woman who buried you says you did,
so I'll address this to you there, and not
the other place, because any god you believed in 
must welcome sinners. Are you happy? 
Is your pain gone, heart and back and lungs 
like you're eighteen again? Addictions vanished, 
no more need for booze, marlboros, heroin?
I hope heaven is like your life
before Vietnam, prison, motorcycle crash, 
before your daughter died
and you learned about it in the paper.
Before your favorite lake drained itself,
taking with it a hillside stripped of trees.
Can you fish in heaven? Year 'round, no license,
all day, adrift in a small boat, never too hot,
no threat of rain, bass eager to bite,
trout flinging themselves at your feet
until you tell them, hey, guys, it's no fun
without some challenge, and like a miracle
they're back in the water, just out of casting range, 
except for the one who nibbles at the bait.
Not that I considered you a sinner, by the way.
The worst things you did, you did to yourself.
You didn't seem to believe how we loved you, 
didn't know what emptiness your death would make. 
We woke up to find our lake gone dry.