My sister heard from them. The dead
stood at the foot of her bed, leaned
in doorways, lingered in the hall.
Never done with earthly errands,
with endless comings and goings,
on business and pleasure trips,
they often paused, whispered advice,
delivered news, and offered timely tips.
Once, our father appeared, serene,
boyish, beaming with an ease
we'd never seen. He wore a new
green parka and carried a ring of keys.
And when she asked, he told her
in a word what it was like: Travel,
he said. He could go anywhere,
and he was happy, so happy! To live
the way he'd always wanted to live.
That's when she claimed to know,
to understand. That's when she began
to talk of destinations and departures.
And her head was filled with plans:
she'd travel light, forget her native
language, learn to navigate at night,
follow winding rivers, shifting sands.
She studied charts and maps, spoke
less and less, strained to hear voices
in her dreams. She woke most days
more focused on the road ahead.
Take care of my babies, she said.
The faraway look in her eyes
made all my reasonable arguments
sound more and more like lies.
I've heard no voices. No one
has come to tell me what it's like.
Dreams are just dreams, the usual
still-life scenes, news I already know.
I jingle my keys for the babies
and think about where I want to go.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.