I worry about what will happen
to my body during the Rapture.
I’ve heard I’ll start rising into the sky until cirrus clouds block me from earth’s view. The rest of the details are unclear. Once I flew in an airplane and the clouds were a furrowed field of water clustered around dust. As if the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk seeded the clouds. I’d like to visit him, see his hearth, meet his wife and the golden goose. I imagine God like that, in the clouds with a harp. From there he could see me and keep a running tally of everything I’ve stolen. I worry about what will happen when my body leaves for the Rapture. What will happen to the groceries I’ve snuck onto the conveyer belt while ignoring the sign commanding 10 Items or Less. I never have less. How long will the chicken nuggets thaw while the dead sing Muzak? I worry about the highways, about the cars and their congestion. Imagine the drivers rising above their BMWs, minivans and SUVS, as though they are pulled up by an industrial magnet. Will the cars continue their forward momentum? I worry one will hit a moose. Did you know that the wobbly skin under a moose’s chin is called a dewlap? Did you know their tongues are purple? If I die and if I am allowed to return, let me return as a moose. I wouldn’t know that my tongue is purple or that there is a name for the skin under my chin. Instead, I would know what prey knows—willow’s astringency, brassica’s bitterness, how sweet and green the garden’s pea shoots.
—Annie Wenstrup
—found in Ran Off With the Star Bassoon (2nd Session)