The dead can look at the eclipse.
I stand with my back to the sun,
a shoebox viewer and pinhole
for the shadow play in miniature.
The moon crept across the sun
as though God were inserting
a nucleus into a cell, implanting
renewable energy in the solar engine.
My dead brother wept for the light,
while our loving mother,
radiant through darkness,
offered solace to her dead sons.
At the limits of lunar mass,
vultures lift off the sun’s rim
as though from the tree of life.
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