Libera Me
Deliver me , Lord, from the threat
of heaven, from becoming the angel
who is not me, who smiles
faintly, fondly
before shrugging me off
like some stiff, quaint pupal case:
the battered leather jacket of the flesh,
evidence of misspent youth.
Grant me, Lord, this last request:
to wear bikie colours in heaven,
a grub among the butterflies.
And this: to take all memories with me,
all memories that are me,
intact, seized first
like snapshot albums
from a burning house.
Answer, Lord, these prayers,
for I would rather
be nothing
than improved.
Peter Goldsworthy
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