Saturday in CinCity

My Dead Friends


by Marie Howe

I have begun,

when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering question



to ask my dead friends for their opinion

and the answer is often immediate and clear.



Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child

in my middle age?



They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling—whatever leads

to joy, they always answer,



to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy's ashes were —

it's green in there, a green vase,



and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes.

Billy's already gone through the frightening door,



whatever he says I'll do.