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.
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