Useful Objects for the Afterlife
Last night I dreamed you were searching my kitchen cupboards. This morning,
the story in the paper of a woman,
unearthed in a Siberian tomb
under twelve feet of rock –
curled as if in sleep. Scattered
around: combs, jugs, a cup
placed beside her mouth,
empty for twenty seven centuries.
You never talk to me.
Maybe the dead are bored by the endless
chores of the living: dental care,
telephone calls, predictable
sex, Sunday dinners.
Maybe they’re mad
we forgot to leave them something.
Think of the smallpox graveyard at K’san,
piled high with enamel bowls and sewing machines.
Listen, I’m sorry
I didn’t bury you with
your bifocals, that tea cup
we bought in Chinatown,
your half empty bottle of L’Air du Temps.
copyright © 2005 alison watt
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