The Dead

Adrian Sobol

I remember
my eyes
under 
my eyemask 
are open
the dark is real 
and velvet 
when I pretend 
to sleep
my body forgets
it is 
holding you
but it does not
forget 
an argument 
we went 
to bed after 
a tendency
I have
you said 
to miss
the issue 
at hand
it’s not that 
I said
I don’t
listen 
it’s not that 
I’m inconsiderate
our problems
are so heavy 
with sweat 
when I am 
alone 
dreaming 
the dead 
back into 
their shoes
looking 
for their 
tender
wisdom
I am afraid
the dead tell me
I made a mistake
why would you do this
they say we
liked being
dead
we’re going 
to have to die
again it was 
so awful
the first time
so cold 
in Illinois
you don’t
even know 
you can’t 
imagine 
they start
to cry
to shake
their arms 
fall off
onto my kitchen floor
stop! I say stop!
I need to ask you
a question I say
do you like 
my new shirt
it’s blue

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 Adrian Sobol is a poet, who can be seen on nights much like this one—when the moon is full and mist has risen over the hills and the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. They don’t know where he comes from or where he goes, but, if you listen, you can sometimes still hear him screaming “Buy my book! It’s called The Life of the Party Is Harder to Find Until You’re the Last One Around and it’s very, very good.”