Lingua

by Nancy A. Henry

The tongues of the dead
are done
with parting tender flesh
they wither
though we hear them
whispering
still.

The tongues of the dead
cannot stop singing
to the dust children
at their sides,
need soothing
and are never soothed.

The tongues of the dead
are moving now, testing,
discovering
they can still trace
the shapes
of our names.

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