“The work of mourning seeks neither to save from death nor deny it, but to save from a ‘worse than death.’”—Jacques Derrida, The Work of Mourning, 2001.
To be forgotten is much worse than death
For memory contains the only hope
Of ersatz immortality—one breath
Divides the quick from the inert; a rope
We walk, stretched between womb and tomb
Its strength depends upon the minds of those
Who attend to our motion and assume
The mourner’s dark, uncomfortable clothes
For that tomorrow from which we will be
Absent, save as specters preserved in tales
Whispered over sandwiches and coffee
By faces painted with tears, ghostly pale
The dead are palimpsests on tomorrow
Mourning makes them legible, with sorrow
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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