and spoken of, from time to time,
and bade goodbye, and sometimes kissed,
and their departure cursed a crime:
and buried deep, with ceremony,
mourned by loved ones garbed in black
left bereft, and weeping, lonely --
but some, from time to time, come back.
You see the signs not too long after.
The grave disturbed, the stone misplaced,
the torn-up earth, the coffin, shattered,
the missing child -- they like the taste.
Some meander, seeking victims,
others stagger slowly home
as if some strange dark power picked them
to eat the ones they'd loved and known.
And then there are a few, quite different,
who move back to their homes, their lives,
and go about them, clumsy, silent.
Dead men sleep beside their wives,
dead wives lie beside their husbands.
A terror fills the live ones' heads:
to be caressed by something rotten
that lies beside them in the bed.
The strangest thing about those cases
is how few times the spouse complains,
but comes to terms with and embraces
what might, some evening, eat their brains.
Some interviews, the few they've given,
divulge their secret, shameful fact:
a common thing, by anguish driven --
each one had wished: oh, please come back.