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.