We Talk of the Dead

It’s a subject that comes up, often. Dead friends,
dying wives, a brother breathing out his days
from lungs shriveled to rot. We say
they’ll see a light or their lives will flip
like a picture book left on some breezed beach.
We talk of ease. But what if,
in that gloaming, they see ahead?
And the flash is not of them, but us?
They’ll know our choked words, our food
on small tables. They might see the mist
that drips down our windows
and the crumbs on the floor. And they will see
when we begin to sweep and fold clothes,
when we ink names on birthday cards
and lick the flap closed. They’ll know
the running starts we take and when
we finally sit still in boredom.
They might see everyone in the life once theirs,
they’ll feel the rattle of many doors,
and if they look at us, in the final flow
of blood, their eyes might say,
it’s okay, you’ll see soon enough,
you, too, will see it all.
 
Amy  MacLennan