by Kei Miller
are only bones and wide
acres of empty.
They live
underground; they are, in fact, the ground –
the leave by which we walk.
Or else they live in air; they are here
right now. You might feel them
as a sudden draught of winter,
a shock of cold against your back.
They are summoned by candles, or by sage,
or by the holding of hands in a circle –
whose centre holds the chalk of their names.
Sometimes, they break the frames that hold
their photographs.
Sometimes, they play pranks by moving
furniture, the armchairs they once sat in.
Sometimes they just walk the streets,
on J’Ouvert morning, for instance.
Come evening, they raise their thumbs on highways,
always seeking a ride home. For they
are constant roamers.
Their roaming lasts exactly nine nights.
Or else, 40. Or else, eternity.
They visit us in our dreams.
And they are obsessed with counting. They count each grain
of thrown salt until morning comes
and they disappear
to ride in low-swinging chariots. Or on the backs of turtles.
In the beginning, it is said, there were two turtles.
One carried the moon; the other carried the dead.
They plunged deep into the water
but only the one with the moon resurfaced.
They follow Bin dir Woor who is the first of the dead –
who having scared away a great bat
from the forbidden tree
brought death into the world.
They have returned to the Great Wheel and are waiting
to be reborn.
They are weighed against feathers.
They are littered across the galaxies.
They live in the stars.
They are, in fact, the stars. They hold council in the heavens.
They haunt the living. No. They are haunted by the living.
And they are rarely seen, but can be
if you rub the gunk from a dog’s eyes
into your own, or if you part your legs and bend over
to look through the archway of yourself.
They rest in paradise. Or in Power. Or in Peace.
Light perpetual shines on them.
They are our most certain future.
And they are always remembered.
And they are always forgotten.
Eventually.
Poem copyright 2023 by Kei Miller. All rights reserved.
See two more poems from Kei Miller debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle: “The Subaltern Dreams of Big,” and “A Mathematical Problem I Have Been Unable To Solve.”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt