Gabriel Fried

Processional

The dead come clean and curious,
without the pulse the living have


to argue. Impeccable in washed-out
seersucker, smelling of peppercorns


and copper, they traipse their hems
through grass they cut themselves,


along the lawns where they spend days.
They almost walk with purpose


toward the tent-fold, soft as bakers
or flightless birds who’ve known no predator.


But nothing is unanswered anymore.
They each have just the one question, a hair


in their peripheral vision, barely noticed
underneath the pale, flat sun that has now risen,


that no one noticed set. Inside the tent,
the patient dead all find their seats and wait.

 

 

 

"Processional" is reprinted from Making the New Lamb Take (2007) by permission of Sarabande Books.