Marjorie Raab October 10, 1913-March 20, 1978
Everything has been arranged too carefully.
The way the eyes are closed, that certainty.
I can see it isn’t possible to pretend
that the dead are only sleeping.
The way the hands are folded
we don’t have to touch them.
When I touched them I knew it wasn’t necessary.
I’ve watched my wife and daughter sleeping.
I’ve watched you. No matter how still,
there’s an imperceptible trembling
accompanies everything that lives.
It’s the way a feather sways, that chance.
It’s the cloud on the mirror,
that stain. For a while we imagined
our concerns were yours. Is this blue dress
the one you would have wanted to wear?
And these rings, that silver pin?
Is this the music you especially liked to hear?
But the dead among their flowers
have no preferences, and I think
it must be wrong to pretend otherwise,
if only for my sake, and not now for yours.
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