Photo from Unseen Histories
Here’s the Thing About Knowing a Lot of Dead People
Pamela Richardson
When you peel back your skin, your dead rise, peer into your room, unkempt, clothes
everywhere. When your body shimmers
with the echoes of their voices, footsteps, laughter, you learn to smile and cry amid half dirty
clothes. You wonder how you can still move
with all the commotion of the dead and their dying. When you’re among the living, every leaving
is lungs holding your breath like a lover,
close and deep. Every arrival, a relief, a softening, petals unfurling. You study faces over silent
chanting, inhale the crow’s feet,
the odd gold speck in the iris. When you wait for the living, each late minute shocks your heart
into irregular beats, a stutter in your chest. You replay
every last word.
Pamela Richardson
When you peel back your skin, your dead rise, peer into your room, unkempt, clothes
everywhere. When your body shimmers
with the echoes of their voices, footsteps, laughter, you learn to smile and cry amid half dirty
clothes. You wonder how you can still move
with all the commotion of the dead and their dying. When you’re among the living, every leaving
is lungs holding your breath like a lover,
close and deep. Every arrival, a relief, a softening, petals unfurling. You study faces over silent
chanting, inhale the crow’s feet,
the odd gold speck in the iris. When you wait for the living, each late minute shocks your heart
into irregular beats, a stutter in your chest. You replay
every last word.