We dead leave no footprints in the snow,
and when we summon you to the door,
you say it’s the wind, or rustling ivy,
or a dry branch scraping a window pane.
We wait voiceless in the dark,
in our hunger and our rage,
for you to wander out that door,
or lean out the window into the night.
For we are your ineradicable past
and your inescapable future.