After the dead have been put away, 

Their bodies lie as shells on a beach,

The limbs that danced with life 

Shut down forever, waiting to be picked up,

Cremated, donated, buried or thrown

For vultures to feast. I call 

Upon the bodies I own, my past loves

My mistakes, even that drunken phone

In the dead of night. Does anybody know

Where the dead go? I think they wait, 

Sometimes quietly, to make their presence known

They live in our bones, sometimes chilling

Our souls, burning into a memory,

As the real bodies pile up, like my father’s 

Which never left me, although 

I watched him burn, brought back the ashes

And floated them away, I turn 

to him, “there is a crisis”, I say, 

“We have to erase the bodies

Eat away at bone and flesh, 

Maybe a mass grave is best,

Quicklime will do the trick, I heard!”

His laughter echoes in my ears:

“Yes, but will it erase your heart?”