Now that I’m dead too, just like the living dead on TV,
fat chance that the merely living will be saved
by doing what they did when I was merely living—
nailing their doors shut against me,
hurricane-proofing the windows,
positioning snipers at the embrasures.
Now that I have a dead army too, fat chance
for the living, for the strength of my dead legions
is the eternal and irrepressible
strength of nonbeing, nonbeing that terrified
being into birthing the world,
and then licked the afterbirth clean
until the world gleamed with nothingness.
Fat chance for the living in the face of that.
Quail they will in the sensible storm of nonbeing,
and weep will they in the face
of my dead army’s weapons: not guns and sharp swords,
but the residual fragrances of their lives on Earth,
the leftover aromatics of the dead, time bombs,
memory’s mines in memory’s fields,
each memory wrapped in a fragrance,
each memory a drop of time
around which a translucent agate has formed
redolent with what was left behind
when its owners vanished.
A molecule of honeysuckle and it is that summer night.
The long shadows. The risen full moon
casts a veil of leaf shadows over a face. The eyes swim up at you.
Then an odor of roses, but powdery and particulate.
A stewardess at the dawn of the age of universal jet-travel.
Your mother holds your hand in hers.
You will be given biscuits in foil and chocolates
made in a country called Switzerland.
Then the burning maple leaves. Then the faint odor
of tin before the monsoon sweeps in.
Then the torrents in the gutter and the smashed mango pods.
Then the rainbow.
Then the rich, delicious mildew of the trailer on the floodplain.
You forgot yourself there.
You never afterwards remembered what you forgot,
never recollected yourself. You will recollect yourself now,
in these fragrances, the indices of memory and the engines
of my dead army. Now will the living know
what they were meant to mean, and they
will know that what they’ve lost
isn’t lost at all, but is there, right there,
dancing on the other side of time—
what they were and what it was,
what it meant and what it means
just on the other side of time.
The confusion can’t be endured.
The longing is as if it were a knife, and for that longing alone—
piercing and inevitable—
the living, the beautiful living, would, if I weren’t already dead,
kill me again and again.