Speaking To The Dead Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Speaking to the Dead
Are you listening, father?
Why didn't you warn me life's short?
Why didn't you tell me
It's not alright to make mistakes
Mistakes don't rub out, like sums

Are you listening, mother?
No I have not got big bones
I'm fat with diabetes two to prove it
And cleaning my plate didn't save one starving child

I sit in my bedroom and walk around in my head
I pluck out memories
I play with them like a cat

The world sits outside the door, quietly knocking
After a while it give up, it leaves me alone

If I let the world in, would it bite?
Would it smear its filthy paws on my linen sheets?
Would it pad around behind me, a third shadow?
I see it has dropped its junk mail on the mat
Why did nobody give me instructions on how to explore it?