In the Book of the Dead
I write two names this morning
that they might be remembered
even by those who did not
actually know them in life— Looking
over my shoulder, in the church foyer,
my daughter points to the second,
saying Was that her name? I nod
and say it aloud: Cresencia. And she sees
and hears three clear syllables— lunar
body, grandmother shape that slips
briefly into the arms of this moment.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.