They always wear perfect versions
of their younger selves.
My grandparents call out, oh, here she is at last.
The table is set for a banquet — this is not a wake.
Dad is by the hearth, encouraging ash back to life.
I’ve never lived in a house that held its heat
I tell him, unable to say I miss you
in case he recollects his death.
He’s distracted, can you hear that?
he asks. Somewhere in the house
a child is crying. Find her, ’he says.
Take her with you when it’s time.
When the door opens, he looks expectant.
I see a shadow of the presence that’s followed me here,
that follows me everywhere. Somewhere a requiem plays
and everyone in the room plays dead.
I will not look.
~
The sea is the colou
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