by Nin Andrews
Whoever told you the dead aren’t good lovers
never met my husband. He came home from the war
in a body bag, the flag tucked in his corpse,
but when he heard my voice, he stepped out
of the coffin, swung it lightly aside.
That’s something every soldier knows
how to do. They can do it in their sleep.
They die and come back to life just to kiss the bride.
After the wedding, we were too drunk to drive home.
Everyone had left the cemetery. So we lay back
against the headstone, said our eulogies aloud,
told the moon and the stars about the life we’d leave behind.