HARRY RICKETTS

 

No Internet in the Afterlife
(for Belinda)

 

I know there’s no internet 
in the afterlife – nor afterlife 
itself, for that matter. 

If there were, you would have left
a sign by now, been in touch, somehow.
Your toothbrush might have moved 

in the bathroom, your nightdress
shrugged off its hanger, your keys shifted
slightly on the bookcase. 

Grief, says Ken, that’s the only 
love we can give to those we have lost.
He’s right, but it’s no comfort. 

Had I died first, you’d have made
a better fist of all of all of this. 

Scorching Diamonds

 

In that John Barth novel, the hero wakes up, 
feels life is meaningless, decides he’ll commit  

suicide at the end of the day. That night,
however, he figures if life’s meaningless, 

suicide is, too; he might as well go on.
And so he does. Which is an encouraging thought 

in its way, don’t you think? Or perhaps you don’t.
Perhaps you still believe love or work or faith 

will give everything a point, as each may
for a time. The first two did for me, but both 

have gone now. Today dissolves to yesterday.
Oh, come on, you say; that is just how things are, 

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine. Well, quite. So,
let go; here only scorching diamonds shine. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harry Ricketts lives in Wellington. He has published 34 books, most recently Bonfires on the Ice (Te Herenga Waka University Press, 2025) and First Things: A Memoir (Te Herenga Waka University Press, 2024). He teaches a creative non-fiction course (CREW 257) at the IIML.

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