by Janet Kenny
I am a corpse who cries after my death.
Bad form I realise. People prefer
quiet cadavers whom they can inter
to those whose muffled weeping soaks the earth.
Listen—we lie beneath your garden path,
under your pavements. If you hear us stir
as you are passing, you must not defer
any enjoyment, any chance to laugh.
Weeping our rusty tears we haunt the grey
under-stones, cling like creepers to the damp
edifice of the past. Please bless our grave,
in restitution for the sorry way
we were forgotten, buried in a swamp,
dumped in a drain, crammed into a cave.