c r o s s
c o n n e c t
t h e d e a d
L I N H D I N H
The nine-year-old hockey puck
Bounced from the fender of an olive truck
Now bounces a leather ball on his forehead.
The old lady who scrounged potted meat
From foreign men lying in a mortar pit
Now sells gold jewelry in Santa Barbara.
The dead are not dead but wave at pretty strangers
From their pick-up trucks on Bolsa Avenue.
They sit at formica tables smoking discount cigarettes.
Some have dyed their hair, changed their name to Bill.
But the living, some of them, like to dig up the dead,
Dress them in their native costumes, shoot them again,
Watch their bodies rise in slow motion.
© crossconnect 1995-1998
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania
kelly writers house