Day 1,030

You number your friends,
the dead and the living.
The dead
outnumber the living.
You thought
this could be true,
but until this moment
you hadn’t counted.
You name them.
Write each of their names
on a blank sheet of paper.
You’re surprised
at how thick
the pile is, how high
it reaches into the equally
blank air in the tent
where you live now. What
remains to be written
under their names? Which
from now on
will only be spoken
in the past tense;
maybe, at times,
the present, as in
“she is buried” in
this place or that; or
“his face is probably
decomposing.” Present
or past. It’s the future
that’s been erased. That
will remain blank. So many
sheets with nothing
written. Blank. Their
futures. The future
you might have had together.