Trauma has come to the Marsh home this fall. I could count them for you, but I won’t. It was enough for me to forget about writing 30 poems in 30 days until reminded on the 18th of the month.

So, here is my effort. Not a happy one, but it’s where the creative juices are right now. This will be 30 poems about death by the end of November. No images on these posts to attract your eyes.

Offering #1

Book of the Dead 1

In the last light of early evening
The newly-dead gather on the other side of the river.
They shout things back to us on the living bank,
Things that matter to the dead.
“Take care of your lungs.”
“Grief is a sharp stick.”
But the living do not hear them,
Jumbled when whisper-shouted together.
The living have gathered inside anyway,
Like every day,
Preparing food and turning on lights.
These are things the dead have forgotten.