Did we put the key back on its hook?
No, the dead took it
to unlock their golden door.
Did we finish that dry Sauterne?
No, the dead chugged it.
Now they are beaming,
tipping way back on flimsy chairs.
Our life was so short: did the dead live it?
The gnarly books—the dead wrote them,
pink tongues sticking out,
brindle cat dozing on their laps.
The dahlias are brighter in the shadows.
The arthritic collie rolls on his back,
four paws in the air, trembling
with anticipation—is it for the dead
whose love knows no bounds?
Now it’s night, the sheen of wind in the lupines—
that’s who we are, the dead cannot imagine us.
—D. Nurkse
D. Nurkse’s most recent book is A Country of Strangers, a “new and selected.”
