“Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened” — translators John Moyne & Coleman Barks

Last night I was ill again, the fever
that comes and goes, the blood cough, the bone itch.
No one came to visit. Not in my bed
and not in my dreams. Empty. Blank. A night
like that terrifies me. A void, despite
everything I know about dreams, the dead,
and the veil. It was as if a light switch
had been thrown. The silence was a torture.
I have never questioned the dead, they claimed
to know what they were doing. Plus, so what?
We the living always claim to know death
inside and out. We want death to be tamed;
we want our dead lovers as living smut;
our nights as orgies filling our last breath.