While the city sleeps

tucked beneath a dark embrace

my mind hears

yours.

Talk. I am listening.

Though nothing

but a frail soul beating

in basement of cadavers 

answers.

I know you are here.

In the heartbeat of silence

I imagine

a house, a car, two kids,

and I see

formaldehyde in your eye.

I can hold your pain.

Dissecting

all the tears you swallowed 

in fibers

molded as myosin streaks.

I see you as you were.

In my hands, your lungs

whither,

wrinkled by 103 years

and charcoaled

perhaps by a city

painted with cigarette smoke.

I wonder what life you inhaled.

Those sutures in your heart

almost torn

still containing the reflecting blood

of life

full embalming couldn’t drain.   

I understand your story.

And in the creases of

your hands

through the withered shadow of

my eyes

I see your lips might once have moved.

Tell me, tell me.

Recounting moments

of a memoir

I am left to dissect

with the piercing stillness of a blade.

I hear.