It’ll be much easier when the dead
lash us with wings,
rise with an ocean of dirt in their mouths
and the slow birth of hair and fingernails.
This afternoon I thought about us,
sleeping in blankets, being fatal,
and it seemed wrong to be on one side.
Thinking about parents and friends dying,
I want loss to be
the one candle in church,
the church to be my spine,
the wax God spills
on my hands daily
to drown us.
But the dead earn a new kind of money,
they shoulder tiny brown coins,
they ride the scorched breath
of telegraph wires into
the silence.
I have resurrected everyone at least once.
I have hidden from the body’s cradle.
I have known I was barely possible
and smashed my fingers into the keys.
This afternoon I was ashamed to love us.
The Dead
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