I.
The young professor, whose blazer fits him
like a bathrobe, asks: How old are you
in the afterlife? Last week my roommate

flushed her prescriptions down the toilet,
and today she accused me of stealing
her bible. You don't even own

a bible, I said. Well, not anymore,
she said. She was tearing
our room apart. I mean this

literally. She was clawing
at our walls. The young professor asks:
When the body stops living, how old

is the soul? I am taking this class
for you. In the afterlife
I want to be your age.

II.
My roommate disappears. No one sees
her for days. The young professor says,
Imagine you're walking

through the woods and you come across
a severed head. He waits
for raised hands. Will we be tested on this,

someone asks. My roommate reappears
and sleeps. It's like she's dead. That's how
still she lies there, and for how long. You're

too young, you said. I said No,
I am old. When my grandfather dies I pocket the remains
of his prescriptions in their plastic orange

canisters. There isn't a cure, only this softening
of the blow. I'm thinking if these pills can work
on dying then won't they do something for

me still living.

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