Like in the dream
I had last night – to my horror
they assembled the small bones of your feet
together with bits of driftwood and shell
into tabletop shrines -
cunning bleached monuments
to their pathetic shoe box diorama
vision of your supposed godhead.
But instead of bones
they presume real words
right into your dead mouth
to confabulate how you would presently feel
about this or that
as if – as if -
a dead man has opinions -
as if they paid attention when you were alive.
Never a gambler, still
I recognize a “tell” when I see one.
In life – depending on the angle
and degree of tension -
your pursed lips
betrayed disapproval, deliberation
or anticipated pleasure.
In death – your cold slack lips
signaled withdrawal from this plane.
I wish you would stop being dead now.
I have tried to make it work
but I just can’t get the knack of it -
can’t muster the arrogance
to counterfeit how you
would feel about anything.
Dead men have no “tell” -
And isn’t the point of gods
that they wont stay dead?
In the dream, they placed
these frangible shrines precariously close
to the doorway or the edge of a shelf
inviting my careless hands
to encourage gravity
arched left eyebrow my “tell”
of vindicated wicked complicity.
