Remembering at the Murderer’s Grave
I don’t actually think of you very much.
I wish that gave me more peace.
But I think of them all the time,
And that’s the problem.
You’d dressed them all up the same.
You must have done that after they were dead,
Because the gowns were spotless.
The only blood in the room was far away from your masterpiece,
Like a loose lump of clay on the other side of the sculptor’s studio.
You cleaned them up,
And I don’t why that made it worse.
I still think of them.
I don’t think I can stop thinking of them.
There was some art on the wall, like in an old monastery.
A building,
A man in a robe.
Antlers.
Those were interesting.
But I can’t remember them that well.
I can hardly remember you,
What you were really like,
Day to day.
But I can’t stop thinking about their faces,
Sunken and grey.
It was like looking at my own ghost.
