Talking to the Dead

Talking to the Dead

Someone has been trying to
send me a message for
weeks—my car keys missing,
pyramids of coins stacked neatly
in corners, lamps turned on I
know I've shut off, toast crumbs on
the counter make the profile of a face.

The scuttling in the attic does
not sound animal—when I climb up
there's old insulation, inches
of dust and this heaviness
I can't shake.

If I could mail one letter to
the dead, it would be a chain
letter—Send this to the ten
people you loved the most—
to see if it returned to me.