dig a trench, slit the throat
of an animal, pour out the blood.
Or sit in a chair
with others, at a round table
in a darkened room.
Close your eyes, hold hands.
These techniques might be called
the heroic and the mezzotint.
We aren't sure we believe in either,
or in the dead, when they do appear,
smelling like damp hair,
flickering like faulty toasters,
rustling their tissue paper
faces, their sibilants, their fissures,
trailing their fraudulent gauze.
Their voices are dry as lentils
falling into a glass jar.
Why ca't they speak up clearly
instead of mumbling about keys and numbers,
and stairs, they mention stairs . . .
Why do we keep pestering them?
Why do we insist they love us?
What did we want to ask them
anyway? Nothing they wish to tell.
Or stand by a well or pool
and drop in a pebble.
The sound you hear is the question
you should have asked.
Also the answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment