My dead don’t haunt a place;
they haunt me.
And I don’t mean in the way,
like when they say,
“Oh, the memory of her haunts me so!”
I mean that they stand with me, just behind
so that when I turn around they’re still out of sight,
but I know that they are there.
My grandmother took me to a garden
just last week,
even though she’s been dead eight years.
I could see her on the bridge that went over the stream,
her hands placed behind her back just so,
fingers curled around a wrist.
And she walked slowly across, looking.
And half a million other things I couldn’t dare to name,
but she would have known them,
and if she hadn’t been just out of earshot,
on that bridge,
I would have asked her to name them for me.