Justice Oliver Boyd Poetry: Deadspeak

Deadspeak (second draft 7/24/2023)

The dead don't speak. Michael Burger, the historian,

taught me that medieval society was a community

of the living and of the dead, which I long for,

but I don't know what that means.

When I think of Josh, I can still hear him playing

his guitar, but his lips, sealed like a mailed-out envelope

somewhere between here and Sheol,

perhaps buried underground or kept under

someone's pillow- maybe his mother's.

She remains on this plane and speaks.

When I think of my piano teacher

Mrs. Weikel, I can still feel her old skin

against the pads of my fingers

and hear her strike the key with tenderness

I've never had. But the music is only in my mind

her lovely voice is gone with her piano and her house

someone else's house is there now and it feels

like that one doesn't belong, but she's dead.

And then there is Sport, with her long wet nose

nuzzling into my lap, asking for me to stay up

with her just a little bit longer into the night

all 60 pounds of her mutt-body gone.

And I can still feel her warm breath

and her perfect fur on my young man's hands.

But she's gone.

The dead do not speak and they do not live on in our hearts.

I only remember some things.

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Deadspeak (first draft 7/6/2023)

The dead don't speak. Michael Burger, the historian,

taught me that medieval society was a community

both of the living and of the dead, which I long for,