My Dead
       

My dead
aren't good on their feet.

My dead slip from ladders,
tumble down stairs, reach

for handles and miss.
Maybe they're house painters or

old sea captains. Maybe, à la
Ahab, they lack a leg.

I thought I could make it,
my father said.

The search for more time.
The white whale

finding us instead.
The surprise.

An untied lace. A protruding
thought on a stair's tread.

Have you tried lifting
a dead person off the floor?

Go ahead—wrap a dead arm
around your neck.

Maybe your dead
are kinder. But mine—

they won't look you
in the eye. Won't

say sorry or
bare their hearts.

They won't even admit
how heavy they are.

Tweet

Copyright © 2021 Jennifer Stewart Miller All rights reserved
from Thief
Grayson Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission