Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue Two

Gail DiMaggio

My Dead Husband Drops By

— surfing in under the curl of the REM wave. I look up from a tryst with the naked piano player, a flight over Trenton on recently sprouted wings, and there's Tony — grey as a case of freezer burn, knocking back a scotch, probably mad. "What did you expect," I ask, "his and hers funeral pyres?" No sale. Money. I think. It must be the money, and I start with the high cost of not being dead, my wheedle shouted after him as he sleds toward the back of the airplane hanger, and at last it dawns on me: this is no "honey I'm home again" moment, this is a man on his way. I call him a just-passing-through, long-distance asshole and — why not get ugly? — I call him a corpse. But as I'm snarling, "What's the use of you, you corpse," the platform is swamped in shudder, in rumble and hiss, the train plows into the station, the PA crackles to life, and someone judicial is droning. The dead, he says, the dead are helpless.