You salt a magic circle on the ground, leave
offerings of food and drink on the counter. 
Allow the porch light to keep burning 
but nearby, lay a water-filled basin—decoy 
and reflective surface. You want them near 
but not so near that they forget they're on 
an otherworldly journey; you want them 
not to lose their way, but imagine one more 
visitation. In the morning when the pewter 
bowl is filled with wings of little silver 
bodies, your sadness swells like the first time. 
Why is it so hard for us to leave sorrow alone, slip 
its many medallions into their cases? And yet 
our pockets are full, we have been blessed.

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