The Democracy of the Dead
(After Liz Berry)
We have crossed over into the Democracy of the Dead.
As though they are the apparitions, red-eyed
and ghoul-like, they have bathed us, powdered us
dressed us in Sunday finery and stacked us
in the high-density silence of London clay. We are
trapped in eternal interment above a putrid spouse
hosts to a necrophagous insects’ smorgesbord.
In the Democracy of the Dead, all matter
is equal. We stay schtum on the topic of skin colour.
At first a loosening, a duck-egg mottling,
we anticipate the day our skeletonised bodies
are clad in black lycra morph-suits stretched tight across
remaining cheekbones and rib cages. In a former life
perhaps we would have complimented our neighbours’
strong bones but in the Democracy of the Dead
we have put aside such restless competition.
Brown mushrooms bloom from abdominals
tight or flabby. No remedy for hair-loss or stiffening muscles
is required. We do not resent incomers
and there are no out-goers. Through frost and swelter
we keep a sightless vigil on our demises; litter
vandalism, the placing of football shirts, toys
and other grave goods. Before being uttered
our insubstantial complaints are smothered. The Dead
are dead; the Living queue to join our soft republic.
Trees shushush. Brambles cradle our headstones.
