Читать книгу Dear Prudence - David Trinidad - Страница 26

THE DEAD

The patter of rain on the roof,

a late-night comfort.

The knife in the back,

removed and blessed,

absorbed by the lake.

The faces in the locket:

thumbnail guardians, cut-to-fit

hearts. “When you make

your transition,” a psychic said,

“Byron will be there, waiting.

Don’t forget it.” May he

be the first to greet me—

a running leap

into my arms. Then

Rachel, Tim, Mom, and Jim.

The dead emerge from

the flicker of black-and-white

footage, grainy Holly wood fog.

Ann, ever patient for

her words to be heard.

Jimmy, prisoner in mind,

in body, yet as poet free.

Generous, self-effacing Joe.

Even Bob, his lungs full

of forgiveness. Even

Sylvia and Ted, reconciled

and working closely with

Nicholas, new to this.

Darragh, too, recently

arrived, all-but-blind

painter, lonely and depressed.

(What mixed feelings his

death stirred up in me.)

And now Lola at eight months,

Aunt Louise in her late nineties.

Behind them, shadowy,

out of focus, the figures of

grandparents and teachers,

acquaintances and friends,

strangers drawn to and

crowding the frame, like extras

aching for more screen time.

Tonight, lulled by gentle rain,

I’ll claim as many as I can name.