Dreamed Beloved: you
cast out your voice, repeat
your dying with new flourishes. By now
you’re expert at coming back.
Or seem to be
though it’s I who summoned you
so you’d refuse to grant me access
to your actual self. I made you my ventriloquist, my conduit
to what’s beyond the grave to help me hold
what in life I never held you with.
(I was polite,
stand-offish just before you left me here
because I thought you wanted that.)
And now: it’s time to call my bluff, release us both.
I know you can because
you always saw me
as I am, or was until you died.
.... by Ann Keniston
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