Nimbus

Nimbus

The names of the dead are not nearly as heavy
as pennies or the ink it takes to declare one deceased,

stamped as they are with the faces of silent.
When the priest scatters dust over the Dutch-door

coffin, wading in the dirt known as Heaven
the body’s name peers down at its former self

like scanning the newspaper for yard sales.
The name might even disapprove and feel

evicted, turned out like the wash.
In ancient Bulgaria mourners carry the dead

feet first from their houses or lop their heads off
all together so as not to entice the living

with the stillness of their breath.
When I was ten I gave my mother charcoal rubbings

of Lodi’s tombstones. The names of the dead are not hard
to steal, as one might imagine. More like kissing winter

goodbye or whacking a spider with a shoe. Shooing
away a mosaic of leaves I find Lodi’s forgotten

in a parade of wilting carnations, plastic mementos,
beer cans in final toast. The orphaned veil of winter.

For instance, yesterday a nuisance of bees hummed
inside the wood of our deck, a performance we applauded

with more Raid. And though last night you scolded me
for killing a moth, poisoning bees left you remorseless,

an empty sugar jar. The bees wheeze and fret
in the nimbus of our comfort, exploding

out of holes drilled just so,
plunging eagerly to the concord of silence.

The names of the dead or the vowels we open
our mouths to, litter our deck.