by Johanna Caton

Death can only be a waking up, and not a rest.
In compensation for our earth-life’s ache of mind
and grist of body, we’re the ones who’ve made
a blessing, surely, of eternal rest. But heaven knows

a better best. And when that Bandit makes his snatch
and run with us (his loot) it’s something like a Monday
morning clock alarm: that shock that shakes us, swipes
our sleep, and shoves us into new duress and dread.

Something like, but, amen, amen,
Mondays will be over then, and we will scan
our paradise without alarm, or wrench or shake, his eyes
and ours bright, in unison of light and sight — awake, awake.

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Johanna Caton, O.S.B., is a Benedictine nun of Minster Abbey in England. Originally from Virginia, she lived in the U.S. until adulthood, when her monastic vocation took her to Britain. Her poems have appeared in both online and print publications, including The Christian Century, The Windhover, A Time of Singing, Amethyst Review, The Ekphrastic Review and the Catholic Poetry Room webpage at integratedcatholiclife.org. Some of her poems can be found at www.integratedcatholiclife.org/?s=johanna+caton