when we can no longer pass
for Living, let’s disguise ourselves
as ghosts, steal the still warm
wedding sheets veil our pink skins
with white linen. ignore the floral
print, the wayward threads.
let people wonder
at the wisps and cusps of our
whispered conversations;
swear
avenge me
swear.
let’s lead children astray
down wishing wells, wail
with widows on Wednesdays, cross those
burnt bridges to the attics of our once
well-meaning friends. make our way
to their torch-lit porches, wave at them
the words of Aaron, with one quick
edit: Let not your sorrow die, though
I am not dead.