Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
Friday, October 17, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
What the Dead Fear
On winter nights, the dead
see their photographs slipped
from the windows of wallets,
their letters stuffed in a box
with the clothes for Goodwill.
No one remembers their jokes,
their nervous habits, their dread
of enclosed places.
In these nightmares, the dead feel
the soft nub of the eraser
lightening their bones. They wake up
in a panic, go for a glass of milk
and see the moon, the fresh snow,
the stripped trees.
Maybe they fix a turkey sandwich,
or watch the patterns on the TV.
It’s all a dream anyway.
In a few months
they’ll turn the clocks ahead,
and when they sleep they’ll know the living
are grieving for them, unbearably lonely
and indifferent to beauty. On these nights
the dead feel better. They rise
in the morning, and when the cut
flowers are laid before their names
they smile like shy brides. Thank you,
thank you, they say. You shouldn’t have,
they say, but very softly, so it sounds
like the wind, like nothing human.
Poem by Kim Addonizio