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The Dead

They stroll in a field with no bounds
or rein, their traceless steps
in luxuriant grass. There are no harps


or wings, no cauldrons or flames.
Each guest rises equal from a bed
of reeds. One leans back on a tree,


luminous cloak against counterfeit bark.
Another lounges in the perpetual breeze,
arm outstretched, as if trailing his fingers,


adrift at sea. Somewhere behind
they relinquished their pasts.
The boy climbing from bough


to bough couldn’t say from where
he came. Cleansed of will, see how even
your mother appears, weaving a flower


in a young girl’s hair, your father
passing in considerable stride through
the song she hums with no words or name.

Categories: Plaza Poetry Picks



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