When I am dead, I will still be your lamb, still listening for your bleating.
In your bed, when you are jolted awake by the usual neighbors, police cars,
I will finally move toward you, undefended, I will be headlights in the dark.
By your bed, I will be the green light, always on, faxing from your faulty heart.
In the morning, I will be the car that drives you to the creek, the bench,
where you watch walkers, not lambs, move across a steel bridge, sturdy.
If you are holding a book, and you will be, it will be The Sparrow.
I will be the alien I refused to read about in life. I couldn’t give you that.
Instead, I wanted to move back, into black and white, the pewter pitcher,
a pigeon on the bowler hat.
I promise you, I will be the other, the one you long to talk to.