from the December 2003 issue of Poetry
Dec. 4th, 2003 12:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
novapsycheWhat It Means To Be Alive at the Time of the Resurrection of the Dead
by Michalle Gould
No one tells you it's here.
A perfunctory knock on the door
awaits no answer, they enter
and crowd at your table, their
boots are damp and spore-
ridden. "Hard work," says your father,
"Being dead. If you could bring some water?"
"But what was it like?" you ask, unhappy to have missed
it, alone among your family. Your mother sighs,
like a girl remembering her lover,
"Different than I expected." In her wrist
the blood runs again. A boy at school once bit all the girls there,
except you, because the bell rang. How you cried that night
in your bed! As if you hadn't been kissed.
by Michalle Gould
No one tells you it's here.
A perfunctory knock on the door
awaits no answer, they enter
and crowd at your table, their
boots are damp and spore-
ridden. "Hard work," says your father,
"Being dead. If you could bring some water?"
"But what was it like?" you ask, unhappy to have missed
it, alone among your family. Your mother sighs,
like a girl remembering her lover,
"Different than I expected." In her wrist
the blood runs again. A boy at school once bit all the girls there,
except you, because the bell rang. How you cried that night
in your bed! As if you hadn't been kissed.
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(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-04 10:54 am (UTC)Please call me, 996-9017 (I'm home sick from work)