taking a walk with my dead
it is a beautiful evening, stars are out and there is something of a festive atmosphere in the air.
the sky is a crisp clear - a nice change from the previous variable sun-gloomy days
the constancy is nice.

flickering candle carpets mark out, here lies, here lies
and among them also the living,
are keeping vigil
a night for our dead

i talk to them one at a time, my patchwork grandmothers
the one who threw shoes at the judge
the one who sang opera
the one who was incarcerated during the war
the one with a new dress a month
the one with three
the one whose husband and child died under the piano
the one who hid jewels in her hair to trade for eggs
the one who slept with a revolver under her pillow
the one who learned chinese brush painting when she found out she was dying
the one whose father sat on her glasses
the one who sang autumn leaves

handed down to me in stories and silences
i am trying to stitch together into
someone who had breakfast everyday or sometimes not, depending
what would you think is funny? and how am i doing?

lately i sometimes understand a little how it happened
that you lined up the laborers and punched them
that you signed all receipts yourself, even the ones for the smallest amounts
that you smoked four packs a day
that you served all your meals hot

sneaks up on me one breakfast i am preparing
one fight i witness
one friend i make

and many more questions, what would you make of it?