During an earthquake, my father dies

I love the upturned hand nestled inside 
      a psalm; can't hate the smell 
of a body still clinging to its corpse. 
      It takes two days before a coffin 
can be found-- in the meantime he lies
      on an unmade bed, formal in 
repose, dressed in his best suit, 
      good silk tie and polished shoes. 
Aftershocks rattle the windowpanes, send
      piano octaves across the floor. 
Tremors around the base of trees unearth 
      small bones and lost mosaics 
of tile. On the third day, a hummingbird 
      flies through the porch slats; 
its wings, bright as wounds, move faster 
      than sight, trying to break the spell.