by Mona Arshi
the dead
how they arrive
in slow trailers
on buses
the untidy dead
though they carry
no baggage
they hold
unguarded photographs
and small words
spoken in
suburban kitchens
or rare marbles
the colour of citrine
never traded
in childhood
some wait
by oaken shelters
they exercise such
tender caution
shoelaces tied
the perfumed dead
on that long road
the rain spitting from
a sideways direction
why should there
not be rain
by and by
and why shouldn’t
birds still
stamp for worms
whilst cats’-eyes blink
in the distance
From:
Mapping the Future: The Complete Works
Copyright ©:
2023, Bloodaxe Books
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