Like refugees, they ran off empty handed,
forsaking heirloom china, cutlery,
leaving behind their hands, their tongues and teeth.
The dead eat only our intentions.
Still we heat the oven, flour our hands.
Into foods they used to crave
we melt too much butter.
We gladly burn our fingers on the skillet.
Hungry? The dead are nothing but hunger
For our sake, they swarm like bees
to sugar skulls and scattered marigolds,
mezcal bottles, glossy loaves of bread,
their own best photos framed in gold,
their graves tidied of weeds. Lured by the lauds
we offer for their safe arrival,
the dead are not Catrinas
gussied in tophats and feathered boas
pipecleaner fingers bent to hold
the stems of red roses,
but they forgive such insults. The dead
draw near us but can only get so close,
like dogs in winter pressed for warmth
to the wrong side of the wall.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (All Souls by April Lindner )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Matin No. 2, John Surowiecki
- The Pristine Chapel, Dog goD 8Hate
- The Mower at the VA Hospital, John Surowiecki
- What I Know About Epistemology, John Surowiecki
- we the people, glen pugh
- Next Time, Joyce Sutphen
- The Night That Comes only Once, Akhtar Jawad
- The Goldsmith, Mario,Lucien,Rene Odekerken
- বাঁকা চোখে দেখো নাকো, Dr. Prabir Acharjee Nayan
- Cronyism, Tony Adah