Living With the Dead
       

The dead follow me around—
elbows on my shoulders
fingers in my hair,
grasping my ears.
Some days they ride me hard,
heels digging into my ribcage.
Dead, I plead, get off my back.
Soon I grow stupid as celery,
numb as bread. I can't feed them.
I can't wash their faces or suture
their wounds with needles of pity.
Now they are wearing my clothes,
settling blouses over their heads,
slipping pale feet into my shoes,
adjusting collars, dressed
to drape the mirror with sheets
and stand in line to shovel dirt
into my grave.

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Copyright © 2021 Gail Newman All rights reserved
from Blood Memory
Marsh Hawk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission