Playing Dead

First, relax. Pretend you can feel the earth

press down on you in darkness as you lie.

Try counting how long you can hold your breath

until sleep heals the gashes of your eyes.

That’s me, pressing down on you as you lie,

tucking your blankets taut at either end.

Once sleep has healed the gashes of your eyes

and your lids twitch, it’s easy to pretend

the pressure of my tucking either end

is greater than the snugness of the grave.

It’s easy math. You’ll twitch, and I’ll pretend

to mourn you as a bored gravedigger might have—

head bowed in smug respect beside your grave.

You’ll see. Asleep, you’ll sink into a dream

of another morning digging graves that have

the smoothness of a surface without seams.

Then, you’ll see them sink into your dream—

the dead who swear they’re not dead. Even those

whose faces have melted smooth will start to seem

to titter in the dust like song sparrows.

You’ll swear you’re not dead, too, but even those

who hear you won’t believe the cries you make

mean much. Can you decode the song of sparrows?

You’ll keep insisting there’s been some mistake.

You won’t believe their rusty cries. You’ll make

a last attempt to claw out of the earth.

You’ll keep insisting, but there’s no mistake.

Try counting how long you can hold your breath.