This poem -- I just don't know who the poet was when she wrote it -- it doesn't quite sound like me. But, yes, I did write it, and it's been in my send-out book (mostly being skipped over) for years. So now, it's yours.
Sweeter Than That
In the house where you grew up, heaven
was everywhere, though secret. One day
you were certain to stumble across it,
a hidden panel in a wall, a door at the back
of a closet, a bookshelf swinging aside
like in a Nancy Drew novel. Every October
the Halloween goblins and ghouls
whispered their alternative story of the afterlife,
one with skeletons and dripping flesh,
candied apples, popcorn balls, peppermints.
Your friends lived in town and got all the best candy.
Beside their fake wounds and orange hair,
how could your heaven not look bland?
But think of those Sunday afternoons
when your mother insisted you nap,
the hush in the house almost too much to be real,
like a further proof that the world beyond
this world was everywhere, and sweeter.