sitting cross legged on the linoleum
reading Keats aloud while she bathed
talking about the desire to write for the ages
and what it takes to be a “real” poet
she leans forward smiling
grabs me and draws me close
planting the sweetest kiss
upon my lips
“you are my favorite poet”
she says
and leans back into the steaming water
“…but you can read more of him if you want” –

they told me to stop calling the dead
as i whisper your name
inaudible, barely a whisper
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i'm trying to bring it back to life.

they told me to stop calling the dead
almost like a prayer
i repeated your name
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i'm doing myself a favor.

they told me to stop calling the dead
i mumble to myself
slowly as i fall asleep,
i told them
i wasn't calling the dead—
i was calling you.

---

(The dead were once alive; had a heart, had a soul.
*I wasn't calling the dead, because you never had one.)