Morning Vigil
(for W. J. E.)
We stepped like nuns into the room
where time had unleashed her beloved seven days before.
Between us, an altar of beeswax tapers lit and crackling,
cedar branches, a heart-shaped bowl cupping the same anointing oil
she had touched onto his eyes and his lips and his temples after she cleaned him,
dressed him in a bold blue t-shirt, his favorite shorts, his still-soiled apron,
the cook in him alive in the splashes of chili,
the smears of sauces, the blurs of butter.
In the glow near our cushions was the corner, now bedless,
where his body had lain, his warrior wife gazing
at the hard absence of form.
She reached for the singing bowl, brought it to life,
the hum lifting like a spirit from the meeting of metal and friction.
We sat still and speechless in the silent span
until the church bells nearby sounded the holy hour,
the heavy gongs of goodbye,
and our breath stopped,
patient for the passing of six a.m.,
when exhales came as cryptic as death
and we inhaled memories of him.
