The Festival Of Fibulae

When the moon is black and pinpricks of stars
fail to penetrate the night’s plush fabric,
we celebrate the diaspora of
dead souls. It is time for the festival
of fibulae. We dream the departed
back into their bones and walk with them once
more. Every necropolis becomes
a candle-lit city with promenades
between blank stones and lanterned yews. We feast
on sugar skulls and candy clavicles
as we stroll with our spirit families.
Young men court the fey attentions of great-
grandmothers, while ghostly gentlemen pay
suit to maiden heirs. We dance like dust motes
until the air becomes crepuscular
and spider-webs glisten; silver spun veils
across our faces. Wicks are snuffed or left
to gutter in the mist of morning, while
we snatch one final kiss or cold embrace
from those who journey on without the sun.