After David Eagleman

In the afterlife, you wake up in a one bedroom flat. It’s not the one you died in but the bay window looks familiar and your fingerprints are on the skirting board. The kitchen has nothing but a microwave and there is no food anywhere. You go hungry for six days until you are frustrated enough to slam the microwave door. It pings. You open the door and inside is the ASDA lasagne you ate on your first day of university. You remove the meal and shut the door. It pings. You open the door and inside is grandma’s leek and potato soup. Shut. Ping. Open. The popcorn dad hated the smell of. Shut. Ping. Open. The receptionist from your first job’s scrambled egg. Shut. Ping. Open. Reheated pizza from your engagement party. Shut. Ping. Open. The beans the day Jim died. Shut. Ping. You will open the door for eternity and burn your fingers again and again on bowls you will one day forget where they came from.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The park gate opens with unwavering sincerity.
I am a gate, it says, I open and close.
I walk through and nod at a dog walker
wearing walking boots designed
by a group of people who woke up
specifically to design walking boots.
Lovely day, he says. A squirrel eats a nut.
The sky is nothing
but the sun doing what the sun does.
The thick tree at the far end
standing between two benches
dedicated to two 17-year-old boys
refuses to pick up the conkers it has lost.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My son is in the bath
teaching his doll about nuts.
It’s all innocent stuff.
He’s explaining that squirrels eat them
but we buy them from shops
and they’re sort of like seeds
because when squirrels put them in the ground
they turn into trees.
His doll isn’t saying anything
but my son doesn’t mind;
he’s surrounded by soil
busy turning into oak.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

There was a heatwave.
Fred swallowed the sun;
it was the easiest thing to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

You say you learned about your brain
from your teacher,
the woman you Saw with your eyes
for the first time three days ago.
You point at your ears
with pasta sauce fingers and say
Sound goes in here.
The moon was in the sky this morning
when It belongs in the night
and A circle is not a square.
Soon you will discover time
and before we know it I will be in a box
inside a black car driving on a Road
the Romans built.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

It will soften your sofa
like a weekend breakfast.
It will make dirty nachos
out of your napkins,
guacamole out of your garage.
It will make your new floral lunch plates
gentle enough to entertain
the 18-year-olds who are
now 35-year-olds.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I search
for videos
explaining how to fold
elasticated bedsheets. I’m
useless.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Silently in line.
Tails tucked, heads up, blackened sky.
Nighttime feline guides.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

After David Eagleman

In the afterlife, your chair has just
the right amount of wobble you will not bother
folding a receipt to slide under the slightly
short leg. Your teapot will have enough
for two cups. The book you’re reading will
make you think about the way you live
your life and the cookies will be double
chocolate chip. A strange will say hello
and make a gentle joke about Tuesdays
being the new Wednesday. Your hip
will still hurt, unfortunately, but you will find
a checked shirt with arms that reach
your wrists. There will be crisps and oranges
and summer fruit squash and thin crust pizzas.
A few friends will be there, catching you
up on how they’ve spent the last few years.
They will ask you how you are.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She’s telling fellow customers, one
by one, gripping her tie-dyed leggings,
knees headbutting each other.
I need a poo. I need a poo.
Her honesty is a bullet
paralysing the generosity of strangers
in the café. I need a poo. I need a poo.
I ask where her mum went.
In there, she points to the toilet door.
She’s having a poo. The door swings open
and a beetroot red hand drags the girl
inside. 10 minutes later, they’re back
at the table next to me colouring in a unicorn.
The girl waves my way.
How was your poo? I ask.
I wasn’t doing a poo, her mum interrupts.
The girl smiles with three teeth
and picks fluff out of her belly button.

© Carl Burkitt 2023