Dead

The Dead

Do the dead cross their fingers behind their

backs when they promise to lie still for so long?

Do they change their names and make new

friends at mixers for the freshly deceased?  Do

they finally know their true selves?  Regret they

did not die sooner or later, briskly or better?

Do they miss their bones, birthmarks, the

comfort and beauty of dark?  Do they ever call

home, or wonder why words came so slow in

phrases and lines instead of like thunder,

booming all at once?  Do they tell stories,

develop hobbies, miss feeling naked and alone?

Not seeing the whole, do they wonder how

marriage became a part of the plan?  Do men

and women alike finally feel their children, and

their children’s children, move inside of them,

kicking and stretching in time?  Do they miss

the weight of a hammer, the smell of sawdust,

the familiar edge of a broken tooth habitually

sought with the tongue?  Depending on

circumstances, do they recall individual

orgasms with pleasure or pain, wonder or

shame?  Do they know the name of the last

number, see the earth’s edge because, in the

end, they find that planets are flat?  Do they

cease making excuses, write poems instead?

Do they open their eyes, draw and dream at

will?  Do they know how it feels to fly from New

York to Paris without a plane?  Do they wait

excitedly in eternity’s lobby for each loved one

to draw a last breath, capitulate and die?  Do

they miss their lips, the ability to kiss?  Do they

watch the living come and go, a terse drama

they see without fast forward, only real human

time and its reverse?