I dream of you, dead, over and
over and over. Not dying— i never see the
calamity, the bus crash,
the gunshot or the gaping wound. Only
your body, somehow tiny, somehow frail,
grey and chill and silent.
Silent and I am screaming for your voice,
for the lilt of your storytelling, joketelling,
historygiving lessonteaching heckling uncling loving
voice. I scream
and it echoes. I scream into
the pallor of your immediate body
and you do not respond. No
one does. I dream of you dead.