from my unpublished second collection
The dead are tired of lying around. We’d like to go for a ride in our pickup trucks and visit our old haunts again — we miss our bad habits, we’re tired of waiting to be judged. I’d die for a cigarette, says our comedian. Nobody bothers to groan. Some of us can pace a bit as our bones begin to drift. We comfort the newbies so they can get used to it, the way time passes and it doesn’t. The gardener cuts his hand on a pair of clippers, wraps his shirt around it, and drives off cursing and looking worried. Learning to live with ourselves, someone says. Snow drifts from the branches. Learning to keep from screaming, you fool, counters a bitter young man. The Angel of History reels in combat with the Angel of the End of Days. Visitors stop by, stop coming. Our headstones and our bones wear down. What bad habits, teases my wife. She turns to bite my finger. Napping all the live-long day. That was you, Napper, she answers. That was you, Napper, I say to the wind and leaves.
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First published in cream city review
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images and text © by Alpay Ulku
