The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.

― William Kent Krueger, from the novel Ordinary Grace

1.

The dead, they call me.
Night after night they die again.
In earth wasted, they turn in graves.

I've tried to be a good survivor.
Still, the dead take stage to relive
last moments to an audience of one.

They lead me through dark streets and
wrecked cars, leaving me bleary and fogged
in the click click click of a flickering film.

2.

I admire their resilience.
I applaud a performance that
tethers me to a repeating past.

In this show, they carry sobs that
make no sound and I claw for words
that will shake us awake.

3.

I cannot find the beginning, just a string
of ends among the ragged sweetpea and
morning chill that glooms the day.

This place of rust and ash, waves and rain,
none of it calls me. Not dim whisper
or urgent whine.

I keep waiting for something to
matter more than a minute, this day,
these long years.

4.

In daylight, when uncertainty burns bright,
we call to you like a god for guidance.
We look for signs and make up meaning.

After a time, we stop waving, stop looking
for our loves, stop seeing you crossing
the street or driving away.

5.

In the dark theater of sleep
I stumble for a seat, look
for you in the life I knew.

Each night your voice
calls me back,
closer, still.

— Drew Myron

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