Rules for leaving 

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The day we buried my father,

my aunts laid down the rules for the living—

after the vigil, leave the house quickly

so his spirit wouldn’t linger.

 

Walk under a table,

so his spirit couldn’t follow.

 

Throw some salt to blind

the eyes of Death.

 

Once the casket was brought out

into the light of July, and the convoy

began, we were told to never,

never look back, so that the spirit

would only look forward,

and through the veil. 

 

When we delivered his spirit

to its resting place, relinquished

custody to the priest, entombed

its casket, sealed all the grief

without escape, said our prayers—

Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine…

 

we stopped by a coffee shop

to shake off the debris of loss,

flick the death that had clung

to our fingernails, so it never

followed us home.

 

I remember floating in that convoy,

shaking my head

at the thought that table salt

and forward glances could ever

control such a ghost, but even

as we drove his spirit for the last

time by the lawn that no one

will remember he tended daily,

past the dogs that howled after him,

the walls washed clean

of his chronic angers, and the house

that sighed in relief, I never,

never dared to look back.