At odd hours, day and night,
these figures crowd inside
my house. I can feel the
desires they keep hidden.

I tell myself to try to be calm —
that they loved me — that
they have some business
unfinished to do.

What I fear, what keeps me up,
are their sharp edges,
the cries of their pain,
their ever-present anger.

And then at last, they are
quiet, tamed as a large
sleeping dog, breathing
in rhythm it sounds.

They were never asked for,
crossing an open doorway
and opening other doors
that only startle me.

They need reminding at times
as piles of dishes are flung
to hush, just hush, as I see
faces as in a fogged glass.

Sometimes they lifted their
shirts and exposed what
seemed smooth skin
absorbing waves of light.

So I had to cover my eyes.
Saying good-bye is hard,
especially since I died,
and wish to be left alone.