Days of the Dead

You can name them, memorialize, live a

century and learn another, bless the dead.

Momento mori in hands of Hamlet—

you, me and all mere jesters put to bed—

may make universal sense. Bless the dead.

These days are most fecund, with fallen fruit

that mushes into earth, an Eden full.

We breathe in kind, inspire, expire, and melt—

Apollo eyes run their visions, then dull—

seeping into afterdeath. Eden full

of promise, then of liars, snakes in trees.

We’ve breathed in kind, inspiring clay to life,

and life to dreams, a little like our God—

may He and we forbid, to temper strife—

we’ve authored all kinds of plots. Clay to life

we fabricate and wonder where it goes.

From one month to the next, we mark them well.

Fyodor’s birthday, Mexican bankday—

Days of the Dead, dressed as heaven and hell—

more than mere calendar days. Mark them well.