the grave robbers

everyone picks out their favorite corpse
and we all waltz around the room. angry Edward
has himself a drink of brackish swampwater and twirls
his late lover around three full spins, with his
arm extended. sad Frank sits in
a cold corner, complaining to his dead mother
of a mysterious woman he’d met, who’d kept him
up nights and never returned his phone calls.
an elderly gentleman holds a fragile, old-fashioned
granny in a grizzly death-grip, and it’s unsure
which is the one who is expired. and then
there’s Eleanor in her elegant dress,
Eleanor who I love, with a rip in her dirt-darkened
chest, a hole which partially exposes
her tender heart. and she’s always been a lady
who’d wait for you to open the door, with
an indulgent smile and a soft word of thanks,
and she waltzes so well.

and we don’t dance to forget, and we don’t dance
to remember. we simply dance to dance one last
time, as weak candles cast our strong shadows
against the cement walls and ceilings. we steal them back
for a single night, for the simple pleasure of extending
our hands one last time, in spite of
extenuating circumstances.