To Robert and Vicki Francoeur  
 
I hold each mala bead to light—
small moons behind the bulb, a chain of suns.
One hundred eight. They push up every night
since she went down, a prayer that runs
like clockwork in reverse—I keep
her altar on the vanity, her beads
and mine are forty-nine apart. She sleeps
beneath the Bodhi tree while Bardo reads
each line into the dark, one day short
of Eastertide. The Spirit blows as fire
from Easter to the Pentecost—for this, I court
no final round. I set the mala prior
to the last bead down, around her frame:
two rosaries descend without a name.