A Prayer for Heaven’s Gift

Jesse Doiron

July 7, 2024

Do not give me virgins when I die,

give me well-read women who can drink.

I like them fat and prone to laughter.

And they should argue well – very well.

And 70?  I think a bit too many there.

So make it one; just one would be enough, 

at least for me, if right. And so, by that,

I mean she’d have to like me some,

but not so much as would be bothered 

if I asked her for an eon all alone.

Eternity’s a long, long while, you know.

Still, she should miss me when I’m gone. 

It would be nice, as well, if she could cry,

when crying’s absolutely what to do, 

and she should certainly let me cry, too.

But even then, she must endure what tears 

may come – her own, or mine, or ours. 

She should retain a renaissance of smile 

when I recall aloud the names of those she

bedded before she wedded me – especially 

that well-made man, Danilo, in Ukraine.

And she should pull me to her breasts 

at times like these and say the difference 

was not a matter she would notice much 

since, indeed, it seems, she rarely did.

She must like to cook, but not cook well, 

so that I can cruelly say “I am not hungry.” 

And thus, cause her to anger and to sulk, 

but, then, forgive me later in the night, 

when we are occupied with other things. 

Her will must make me better than I am,

break me apart to mend into a stronger man.

She should demand whatever I can give, 

but owe me nothing more than being there.

Which reminds me, I don’t mind waiting 

for heaven’s gift, I mean, the dying part.

For what I want in your foreverness, 

you have already here, for me, sufficed.

Jesse Doiron has worked in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia as an educator and consultant. His teaching experience ranges from English for international business at the UC – Berkeley Extension in San Francisco to creative writing at the Mark Stiles Maximum Security Prison for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.