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This morning on the radio, the woman
who came back from the brink of a terminal 
disease said all she wanted to do was bite
into a piece of bread spread thick with butter, 
drink the good bottle of wine she'd been saving 
for a special occasion. Then she wanted to steal 
some art off the walls of the clinic she'd gone to 
for so many months, do something ridiculous, 
audacious. Also, she said she doesn't believe 
there's anything else after this life. No 
shining country after crossing the threshold, 
no luminous chorus singing like piped-in muzak 
in a tunnel or train station. I was amazed
at how sure she sounded: not a bump of doubt 
in her throat, not a sudden wriggle like a small 
animal hiding in her pocket. You might know
what I mean if you've ever awakened at night 
with the remembered sweetness of egg in your 
mouth, or smelled the yeast in a rind of old 
bread hours after you tucked it into a bag.