The day after the Day of the Dead
where do you put the bones
you don’t need, the paint, the wig, the circles
in black around the eyes, the dead-white flesh?

I don’t mind the dead,
when they are not yet fully grown,

knocking politely at the door. They want
a little sweetness, arriving costumed
in the skirt of non-being, wearing the smeared cape
that drapes what is and reveals what is not.

Trick of treat! Give or be soaped!
In greed and fear, in death’s near light,
in need: get used to it, being.

The dead stand at the door and hold out their bowls,
little monks begging for more life;
and this one night we do not turn away
from how the dead need us to come to the door

and smile. We say, good costume, we say,
what can we give you from our still warm hands?