Resurrection
The dead still walk
within our memories,
and breathe
and smile
and talk
inside that strange preserve we keep,
a room still redolent with life
above the boxes where they sleep.
What irony prevails, that we
may call them forth upon a whim
as frozen servants microwaved,
enjoyed, and then returned at will
to their uncertain rest.
Might we indulge them,
favoring a spirit laugh
at our audacity?
Might they indeed, be guiding us
inside our stumbling bones,
inside this diorama
quite obsessed by touch?
We might do well to understand
they fly to us
with such astounding love
to fill our reminiscenses
upon demand, and yet
with sad politeness fade away
at suppertime.
~
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