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
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.”