I.
This is the deepest and the coldest lake.
Does it go down to hell? Dark
With excess of light, thus I make
My journey to perdition?
I did not think to drown
Unless in drink. Though Seafarer by name
I rarely went to sea, but now
I take my passage into seas unknown.
I shall not go to heaven, where I know
With absolute self-righteousness, they will sing Bach.
II.
In life I was evasive. Now I hang between
heaven and hell, ultimate
neitherness, suiting me, as clothes did,
all ways, as if I didn't care. I did.
I am not dead
until declared so. Nor am I damned
till dead. Such is theology.
III.
My funeral is ended. My brother's
eulogy was kind, oh darling one,
and Margaret, who had most cause to hate me,
came up trumps, as I have never done.
I choose to linger in this loglike state
until chill water sheers me to the bone
and all my sins are shriven. Brazen, late
I'll come to judgement, as I've always done.
Michael Goodson, drowned May 2019