Massaging the Dead

I’ve spent a lifetime massaging the dead:
Worrying and fretting; making them coffee;
bringing them groceries; cutting their lawns;
making them come and dumbing down the universe.

But all they can do is expect:
Expect the tickle to be careful;
expect to be soul-fed sugary lies like baby birds;
expect me to breathe meaning into love
that is brain-dead, frozen blue and far past the point of resuscitation.

They are unable even to lift limbs, but expect my sincere inspiration,
and heartfelt submission to their impossible ideals.

And what does it leave me – this hamstrung marathon?
Nothing but a tied and bound conscience buried in the backyard with dream bones and rotting table scraps, whose skeletal middle digits pierce my spine when I’m drunk.

There is no peaceful place for me in a life where the smallest shreds of honesty embarrass the dinner guests and equivocation is a virtue.

The dead are harm in my arms, though my arms find it hard to let go
for fear that I’ll slip from the greased edge of their cold zombie love
into the wild blue.

Parachute packed, I now understand that freefall is the best redemption.

So I’m jumping.