A Refusal
Yes, I know he cried, and cried out loud, "Come out."
But no, I didn't stir.
It was a vast disappointment to all that crowd.
(John lied, of course:
if I had come out, the other three would've said so.)
Why didn't I come out?
I heard all right – I wasn't entirely dead,
not even after four days (four months, four years).
But there's often a quiet pleasure in saying No;
and you can always say No; except to love.
I never said no to love – not real love,
mutual and accepted. This wasn't love:
it was a play for power. (It often is.)
So I said No, I prefer to remain – dead.
Anyone who's been dead
knows it's folly to strive to live again.
When you have done your work, and lived, and loved,
why should you respond to importunate calls?
I did say No on a few other occasions
during the time when I was still alive,
and I knew it hurt, it hurt them. I was sad,
too, those times: I don't like causing pain;
but sometimes you have to defend yourself with No,
when they haven't yet a real claim upon you.
When once you're dead, it's a totally different matter:
kick them all out, those most impertinent callers;
put down the phone, throw out the begging letters,
and never answer the door, when they cry, Come out.
That's all I have to say.
Now, let me rest.