Poetry

Image by Ksenia Sergeeva from Pixabay

The dead whisper homilies,
falsities,
word upon word,

murmuring poets, standing
from bed head to death’s head,
night unto the light.

They press their fingers upon
and through me.

I was a child once,
then I heard her keening
and she was gone.

The dead whisper
to their own, in poetry.