Poetry

The Servant

Remember that servant with the generous heart you were jealous of—let’s visit her humble plot. We really should take her some flowers, you know. Our poor dead ones must surely suffer so, and now October’s bitter wind and rain have stripped the trees and scoured each marble stone, they’re even more left out. It’s such a slight the way the living snuggle up at night, while they lie still, devoured by gloomy dreams, no pillow talk, and no one in their arms, frozen old skeletons the worm’s let go, feeling the steady drip of melting snow and the century flow…

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