he came to bed
war in his head
a breathing cemetery from head to toe
he gets up as soon as the sun rises
he can’t lie down
too close to the ditches and trenches
the arrested faces
the muted moments
the immovable uniforms
burial shrouds
he’s still in that basement
*
the dead reign
move his writing hand
corpse faces glued to his alphabet
page after page
rewrites his memory
drains his memory
cures every sickness in his body
like waves they come back to holler
he never walks back alone
he haunts the dead
he can’t stay away
he drinks himself back
collecting objects
the harbinger of death and decay
mothers’ faces
he takes them in
flesh and blood
colouring outside the lines
dyeing fields
young men flooding
here’s an object
the last one he held
the one he looked at the most
nostalgically
open mouth
tears rolling
letter after letter
he travels
until his hands are empty
this is it
now you must live
children are born
because there has been too much death
isn’t that how it goes
splitting his body in two
collective pain
collected pain
too heavy for himself
branching out
brittle-leafed
a wardrobe of letters
never reaching the weight within him
he writes because he hopes that he can survive
Croque-Melpomene 