The Dead

It is not that their spirits can possess
part of my mind or work my hands with strings
up in the ceiling. There’s no voice that sings
soft in my ear. They’re all dead, more or less,

the ones I mourn and gone into the ground
or into ashes tossed into the wind
or in an urn. To some of them I sinned
and some of them I loved. Without a sound

they went into the night. They had no choice
but I still do; a few short years remain
to do my work and theirs. Silence the pain
that aches until I find some of the voice

that died in them. And I ventriloquize
An echo of their work that swells, then dies.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to

  1. cmcmck says:

    Having lost a dear friend just yesterday, this one works for me :o)

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