What are we to believe
of those who are dead?

Not the dead whose body
has long withered and worn
from a lifetime of crashing into aspects.

This dead shuffles into the kitchen
lifts the waiting cup of acrimony
disguised as a short pike
and stirs an anxious spoon through the black liquid.

They are trance-like
and self-preserving -
frequently inspecting themselves.

Mirror, mirror
I see how you fuss over your seasonal lines.
For what or for whom
are they saving themselves?
One more quick check.

Mirror, mirror
Suffice it to say,
you seem content to admire your own paralysis
however moribund.

At one time, they understood what I meant when I said
there are times when touching fog
forsakes earth.

What could this dead teach in this state
except to hasten our speed
to consume
to accumulate
Or worse yet
withdraw
and retreat.

You, from your own hand, I once tasted
a fervent collision
so textured and heady.

But now the heat of everything
is locked away for safekeeping.
Even my tongue aches to set it free.

Tell me, while I hang in the balance
Why you are obligated to your asepticism?

words © malai carrara 2013