Ellen Devlin

Monsters

The dead are rumored to be alive again—
half–rotted torsos, empty eye sockets,
loping around on ruined tendons.
What do they want? Who wants to live again
in our endless need, our lost knowing? Someone
remembered gravestones chiseled with words
and wondered if a worded stone keeps
the dead down. Maybe it soothes them, sings
a night song. There are always the dead, lying
on the forest floor, on roads, in a barn,
a milking bucket beside her. So, we
gathered small stones, glass, and metal shards,
scratched words on the stones, brave/shareful/
songful/funny/, and placed them on the forehead
of the unburied dead. Some of us
put a hand on the chest or kissed the stone
and our own chest, warmed, unrecognized. 

Ellen Devlin is the author of two chapbooks: Rita and Heavenly Bodies at the MET, both published by Ĉervená Barva Press. Her recent work has appeared in The Coachella Review, The Amethyst Review, Mom Egg Review, RockPaperPoem, Beyond Words, and The Westchester Review, among others. She has a forthcoming full-length collection from Broadstone Books.