Djinn
Rae Armantrout
Haunted, they say, believing
the soft, shifty
dunes are made up
of false promises.
Many believe
whatever happens
is the other half
of a conversation.
Many whisper
white lies
to the dead.
"The boys are doing really well."
Some think
nothing is so
until it has been witnessed.
They believe
the bits are iffy;
the forces that bind them,
absolute.
As Day of the Dead approaches, I've been thinking of those who have passed on, and wonder if it is possible that they are aware of us. I like to think that they are, even though I lie to the dead, my dead to be precise. I tell my own djinn, the one I sometimes feel watching me, I explain my reasons, give my excuses, and wait for absolution.
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