The Dead Man, 1958

Home through the heart’s forest after so

many little glasses of sherry, each sweet

as a headache, round and brown as an eye.

I’ve been dancing at the hospital again

with Paul. No father is waiting to chide me.

My mother is dead asleep.

When we miss the last bus together and trudge

down the middle of Aigburth Road

as if we’re the only souls in the city,

we find the body, an ordinary man

shining in a suit and overcoat, no blood,

his hand a sliver of moon, one arm twisted

No kiss—Paul must find a phone. I hang up

my red macintosh. In the starry kitchen

I light the gas, boil water for tea

in the iron kettle, find bread under a cloth

and butter on the marble slab. He was like

a fallen tree, hollow, our fears crawling

over his flesh. He was like anyone.

The crumbs dissolve on my tongue

in distinct grains, butter slick and salt.

It takes a long time, learning something awful

but true. I pull my sister’s shoes off.

They have rubbed raw spots on each heel,

the skin blistered and lifting off like haze

from the sun, two red-eyed suns. It’s getting lighter.

The pain is a kind of warning and a kind of relief.