I’ve decided to let the dead speak for themselves,
having not yet learned
before the door closed.
There’s a trick to everything. 
Every conversation
I adjust to the silence.
There should be a word.
I can’t help but wish
someone else were chosen.
Around us the angled light
purplish red, spilled blood)
changes direction
like lightning slicing through,
holding onto its curve.
I never noticed
if they were born in heart fires
and didn’t let it out.
Three generations tethered
will stand silent.
The air above holds.
I close as I began, with your words.
There is a lie in the premise.
Ask for another

Composed with lines from the most recent poems by Jim Lally, Pat Own, HB Elam, Patti Miller, Karen George, Bill Verble, Bianca Bargo, Jeremy Paden, MJ Eaton, Melva Sue Priddy, Deanna Mascle, Christopher McCurry and
mtpoet (though not in that order.)