Sometimes the Dead

Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch

 
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes:
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
 

Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
 

Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
 

Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; though they have committed felonies,
 

yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
Until we become them, O, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must.