You've always wondered how the dead eat and drink the offerings set out on the mantel without spilling a drop; how they peel the rind off fruit and pick the stringy membrane out from between their teeth. How do they sink into the couch without a sound, turn the pages of a book or newspaper or seal an envelope shut? You know they're near when your nape feathers with the memory of their touch, or when, in winter, a room fills with the faint smell of jasmines or ylang ylang. One of them manages to call for a taxi promptly at 6 without using the telephone; the driver, perplexed and then annoyed, finally drives away into the night. You've been taught not to worry about what they mean by lingering in doorways or returning. When they're ready to admit there's nothing more they desire here, nothing more they can or want to do, they'll prepare for gradual departure by tiptoeing around in your dreams until finally, one day, the room is only a room, the ticking in your ears just the clock; the charred smell only someone in the kitchen burning the toast.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.