Valhalla

In the afterlife, the hearts of the famous
become crusty loaves of warm bread
gold-dusted with cornmeal,

which are consumed with delight
by the masses who gather
to feast.

The famous do not care.
They’ve had their fill.
They sit on their white porches

imagining entire lands without bread
continuing to be satisfied through them,
with no more effort on their own part.

Take our hearts, they say gladly,
we have no more need of them,
too often they were broken at the first,

or were broken again and again
as we tried to keep up with your needs.
Take and eat, while we rest.