The Dead in Their Graves Are Listening

by Brett Rutherford

Listen! The worms, always.
Millions of teeth,
earth-moving cilia on pulsing tubes,
the parting of soil, the tiny pop
of subterrane surprise
as a cavity opens,
the drip, drip, trickle, drip
as rain water instantly rushes to fill it.

A mole like a distant subway car,
snuffling about for edible roots.
The put-a-put sounds advancing,
retreating —
all the dead can hear of automobiles.

The door-slams (count them!)
of nearby visitors —
clickedy-click high heels of the women,
bump-thump of the men and the boys.
That’s on the pavement —
upon the lawn
the sound of someone walking
is always just so quiet
that the dead are always imagining
they hear it.

Is that someone now? Is it night or day?
What year is it, anyway?

Beneath the earth, inside the casket,
inside the shroud or winding cloth,
even inside the mummified skin,
the shriveled organs, inside the bones
where the marrow flakes to rust,
even inside the brain,
a desiccated thing
no bigger than a walnut,
consciousness clings.

(How do I know? From the whispers
I hear beneath the willow-weave,
the message no wind
alone could have invented.)

Their eyeless sight sees shades
of blackness,
their drumless ears are perfect receivers
for what their lipless mouths
have to say. Open your senses —
hear them!