The dead are at our mercy.
We embalm them, bury them, burn them, autopsy them;
Leave them in a field for mice, honor them, mourn them;
Spread their ashes in the canyon during spring.
*
The dead are at our mercy.
To walk in the field barefoot with mice, flowers, again;
Again, to taste sweet music, to feel hard work, again;
To be honored, conjured, resurrected, if only in synaptic flames..
*
The dead are at our mercy.
Even as their faces fade, voices go dark, stories unravel, even;
Even as we sense less the weight of their hands, even hear not their songs;
Even as we become the only sign they ever even lived.
*
The dead are at our mercy, yet.
Yet, their words attend our dinner parties, their jokes haunt our travels, yet;
Yet, their absence presents itself, their silence abounds, yet;
Yet, they cavort in our blood, tickle our ears, whisper as we come to them.
