THE GRATITUDE OF THE DEAD

Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.

What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of the earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around this brilliant peace.

He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.

—Robert S. King

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Robert S. King is the editor at
The Whistle Press

All rights to this poem belong to its author.

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