If the dead should wake and breathe,
And scratch their way from underneath,
With bodies conscious, faces, lips
Unchanged still since death’s eclipse.  

Would the fear not quickly melt?
To see all those for whom we felt,
Such longing.  Perhaps in our grief  
the lifeless might give some relief?

So, one night, to curb grief’s fall,      
My Mother from the grave I’ll call.
Her dead smile faint, her dead skin pall
Her breath stench still of alcohol.

Would I let her in? Would it be her at all?