Memory, with no strings attached

We say we know
all there is to know
about the dead.

Moths cluster around lamps
and we think their wings
make the shape of grandmother's
voice, the way she limped
when she walked;

how grandfather liked
to stand in the doorway,
waiting for evening to loosen
the knots in his blood.

Who says the fly
on the windowsill was sent
to keep an eye on their wandering?

They've been gone from this
earth so long, they should be

allowed to come and go
as they please, with no
requirement to remember
their former life
among us.



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