Sometimes the Dead - Lisa Shulman

[Larry Robinson]

Sometimes the Dead
 
Sometimes the dead 
drop in for a visit;
Unannounced,
they brush past me
on the front step
as I juggle groceries and keys.
 
Having no need
for doors locked or open, 
they make themselves at home,
kick off their shoes, rest
their bones
on couch and creaking rocker.
 
While I put away
eggs and bread and cheese,
they thumb through yesterday’s
newspaper, old New Yorkers, dusty
books of poetry, arguing idly 
over the TV remote.

Sometimes the dead
settle into the back seat;
while I drive
they lean out open windows,
letting the wind blow through them.
 
When it rains
they press pale cheeks
to cool glass, watching
ghostly reflections of light
on wet pavement.
 
Sometimes I think
they fiddle with the radio
when I’m not looking.
 
 
Why else would tears
spring to my eyes
at a song that was never ours?
Why else would I cry
at a certain turn in the road,
where spreading arms of valley oaks
reach out in empty embrace?
 
Sometimes I doubt,
but if the dead do not stop by,
why do I put down my fork,
the food in my mouth suddenly 
ashes and dust?

Why, then, do I wrap myself
in blankets at night,
warding off the dull chill
of a room that is at once empty
and too full to bear?
 
 	     - Lisa Shulman
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