What Our Dead Do by Zbigniew Herbert

What Our Dead Do

Jan came by this morning

—I dreamed of my father

he says

he rode in an oak coffin

I was near the procession

and father says to me:

how fine you’ve got me up

and this funeral is splendid

flowers at this time of year

it must have cost a fortune

don’t worry about it dad

I say—let the people see

that we truly loved you

we’re doing you proud

six men in black livery

go grandly alongside

father ponders a moment

and says—the desk key

is in the silver inkwell

in the second drawer on the left

there’s still a little money

we’ll use the money—I say—

to buy you a gravestone dad

big and made of black marble

no need son—says father—

rather give it to the poor

six men in black livery

go grandly alongside

carrying lit lanterns

again as if pondering

—watch the flowers in the garden

cover them properly in the winter

I wouldn’t want them to go to ruin

you are the eldest—he says—

take the genuine pearl cuff links

in the pouch behind the picture

may they bring you good luck

I was given them by my mother

when I graduated from school

he didn’t say anything else

but fell into a deeper sleep

so this is how our dead

look after us

admonishing us in dreams

returning our lost money

trying to finagle us jobs

mumbling lottery numbers

or when they can’t do that

tapping fingers on the pane

and we in infinite gratitude

invent them an immortality

snug as a mouse’s burrow