You recognize neighbors,
a cousin—
Old Neculai dead?
His son, too, at 50?

Weeds tangled,
fiery cosmos and marigolds,
burnt candles,
plastic wreaths.

Don’t pick the flowers,
I tell Dana too late.

She pulls at the blue chicory
growing from the eyes
of the dead,

uproots gaillardia,
fringes of their blankets,

and dry grasses
out of their bones.

For you, she says,
and gives me the bouquet,

then blows off the head
of a dandelion,

sending little soul seeds
into the wind.

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