Andrew Weigl

Dead Man, Talking

Riding a train out of deep, sweet Brooklyn by myself, I met a dead man. He showed me the worn plastic hospital bracelet hung over his skinny wrist and giant hand. Hand of the homeless, hand of the lost. He told me that he had died three times, and been brought back to life three times before they finally let him back onto the streets. He showed me a scar on his chest where the doctors had gone in, and his back, where god had pulled out his wings. He told me my true name, and said that I carried peace with me for others, and to never stop. He told me that some of us were chosen to take this weight and horrid ache for the sake of the others. We rode over the bridge; he covered Brooklyn in lotus blossoms. He threw the doors of the subway open and leaped into the east river before the stench of the city could reach his nose. I watched it all. It is all true. It is all, always true.