Saturday, August 14, 2010

When the dead speak

You’re already dead. I saw the white hairs of the earth, undug, dropped down into the hole of your grave, with a patty-cake-pat those hands smoothed over you. All well, marked you with a stone. What they called you by, chiseled into the face. They say a name can hold a person, so they never disappear.

The skin on my face wet, I did all those things humans do when other humans die, as they lowered you, thought of flame and ash, how you could have turned to wind, been free. Not this box, this box casing, this last home. Who chose this.

Now you write me from velvet, wanting peace, you ask for a drink, burp dust.

Tell me, how am I to answer, to feed skeleton, hold skeleton to breast. You—without skin casing, where maggots feasted, your eyes unaccountable--pit for a peach, or a thumb, always shadows in your hollows.

Tell me, what will I look into, the flesh of your cheek eaten and dry, as your mandibles open. You say, I love you I love you, tell me

what, wet and shining left, tells me the truth--what you really mean to take this time.

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