She Wonders If the Dead Can Hear

She wakes at 3:00 AM to a sliver of golden moon hanging low on the horizon and shining like a coin in the sun.

She washes her face and stares
at the mirror into her own eyes.

She feels the floor with the soles of her feet
and represses a laugh.

This is life, this is breath, and pulse, and awe, she thinks —and a dog barks
in the distance.

She thinks of her sister, (I know how much she misses her) and
wonders if the dead can hear.

“God is the same God on your side of the veil, is He not?” she asks,
not sure if her words are understood.

“And the world is being born at every minute, is it not?

And aren’t the birth pangs what we read about in the morning news?

And aren’t the forceps the waves crashing over the sand?

And don’t the birds fly in wonder, as they observe each new beginning?

And don’t we, who walk on the crust of the Earth, spend our time searching
for something to relieve the pain?

To put us back to sleep, to make us dream again, as if what we have in waking
is not itself a dream?”