New poetry from Remembering the Dead


The Dead

From the mist, black wagons
Crest the hill. Advance
Their cargos full of love,
But not all;
Some walk alone.

At the cemetery
A soft rain falls
And we are glad
For the warmth in the hand, later
Food, the drink, the band,
And sleeping in back of cabs.

We look good in black.
We’re happy, then we’re sad.
And finger grandma’s pearls
They’re real, I’m told,
And shiver in the cold.

At night warm
In my bed, but
You in the mound.
The wind rages,
It’s cold there,
The ice coats the ground.

The Dead close their eyes.
I am dead.
No, just asleep,
A warm embrace,
And love.
For now, at peace.

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