Here you will find the Poem The Dead of poet Kate Northrop
Their reward is they become innocent again, and when they reappear in memory death has completely erased the blurs, given them boundaries. They rise and move through their new world with clean, clear edges. My grandmother, in particular has become buoyant, unattached finally from her histories, from the trappings of family. By no means was she a good woman. But the dead don't care anymore for that. Weightless, they no longer assume responsibility, they no longer have bodies. Once, at the end of August, after swimming in the muddy pond I'd gone into the living room, cool as vodka, where my grandmother sat. Greed thins a woman, I remember her rings, bigger than her fingers. Water ran down my legs onto the floor becoming slippery and my grandmother, her breath scratchy from cigarettes and blended whiskey, leaned into my ear and whispered you're an ugly girl. Do I have to forgive her? My mother tells me no one ever loved her, so when I see her, I see her again in the park in her pink tailored suit, suede pumps, I see her moving among the strange gentlemen that have gathered, the dark powerful men. She is still young, blonde and most of all, she is beyond reach, beautiful.