What am I, mother, but the undead walking the way you want me to walk, the way you want me to talk, up from the grave at your command. The zombie I am, covered in soot. Soon I swoon and faint and fall. But that is not all. I am the spoon you cook. I am the food you concoct. I am the line you lost with the hook at the end, meant to sink into a mouth. My cheek is set, my wretch is good, I am not what wooed you.