Saturday, January 17, 2009


She thinks the dead are only sleeping,
swimming through the milk of dreams,
in their red shoes.
Whispering ,
"where are my gloves?"
"did you find the train tickets?"
lives lived full of unanswered questions.
They wander through the mystery of loss.
Just beyond her reaching arms.
So she cooks their soup and bread
lights their candles, feeds the lonesome dog.
The dead come round the table,
called home with the sweet smells ,
and the names of her children.

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