Dead

the dead give us our lives.

think of your memory of
a beloved aunt’s house full of junk.
think of how it was the source
of your lusts:
for oily wood, like the handle of your dad’s hammer;
for your mother’s china, linen, knitting needles;
for a hero’s baseball, pistol, top hat, signature;
for the sharpened rocks of unremarkable, forgotten nomads.

think of who you obey
in your moments of strain: lovemaking.
the first kill. a confrontation
with contradiction.

think: whether you are rebel or meek servant,
when did you ever do anything
that was not given to you to do
by some ghost?