Every day, as I get out of bed
to open the shutters
I think of my dead,
my beautiful dead.
They come back in my dreams.
Why should I push them out of my head,
my beautiful dead ?
The first was my fierce grandmother's
beautiful corpse on her bed
whom I lay on and kissed in the hope
that she'd wake up before her soul fled.
(I was ten at the time.)
I stroked all their corpses,
my beautiful dead -
my aunt and my mother, my dogs -
all except one who was murdered.
The last one I killed because he had killed
too many chickens and cats.
I buried him with his ball
in a tumbledown shed
in the wood by my house,
the last (so I hope) of my beautiful dead.