Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Why The Dead Sing

I know why the dead
sing,
underground,
in the dark,
bound in boxes.
They have no one
to tell them
they can’t.
They have no one watching them
to see
what they’ll do.
If they flail their arms about
like wet mop heads,
who will care?
If their faces contort
all sunken
like the ripest of cantaloupes,
and their tongues
flop from their mouths
pale and white,
and helpless,
who will judge them?
Who would dare criticize the dead?
To unearth
them.
To disturb their sonorous slumber?
A choir of corpses,
shrouded in linen and lace.
Man and woman and child
locked arm and arm
unfettered by worry
or fear
marching on.
Marching.
Marching.
Marching.
But to what beat?
There is no heartbeat to listen to.
No pulse.
No rhythm,
to guide them in their song.
Nothing to feel when their pale hands are placed upon their vacant chests.
And yet,
they sing.
They sing.