The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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. . . the dead have no names, they lie so still,
And all the beautiful are blameless now.
I blame them less for leaving me
Than for not leaving me alone.
Their loneliness becomes my company.
After I have mourned and wept
And brought myself to peace,
They shift the chairs, shake
The china from the shelves,
They disappear ten times each night.
They want to touch, to be held.
I drive them from my house,
Hurl imprecations after.
I want silence in my rooms,
I want the children to sleep
Without being visited.
But when I’ve rid the house of them
I find they’ve taken residence
In my heart . . . the old woman
With failing sight, the man
Who fears darkness and fears
Being forgotten, now become
A part of me. The trick is to find
A room they’ve not discovered,
Deeper in the house
Than I ever thought to go.