Tim Lockridge

How He Made It To Heaven

Flew on the back of a crane
to the summit where snow
knew the story of everything.
Threw a rope ladder
and reached through
the cirrocumulus
until he was on the other
half of morning and knew
he'd misunderstood sky
blue. Took the spiral staircase
but got dizzy halfway—stopped
and dropped change but never
heard the nickels hit. Wished
there was an escalator.
Saw a waterfall and swam
through the hem of its sash,
grew gills and slept.
Was touched on the shoulder
by others, invited to shore.
Asked about god.
There, they said, pointed
to a single satellite in orbit.
No, he said, God.
Then the satellite turned,
faced him and unfurled
its metal wings, the sound
of steel on steel tense
like an orchestra tuning,
then silent. He saw stained
glass, missed the mountain
below. The air stung. The sun set.