The corpse had to be fanned
for twenty eight days.

You had to squat
on the floor and believe
the fanning helped the dead
object of your love.

Even while winds
grabbed your eyes and
pushed you backwards
into sleep, you had to trust
what you heard.

By the fifteenth day,
the floor dulled into dust
and pieces of the fan fell
all around you.

The lime tree near the window
yellowed like marginalia.
Busy flies desired access.
On edge
like the crows outside.

The corpse could repulse you
sometimes.

That bit of body, the purpose
of your love
troubled the air
and filled it with tenderness.

Anticipation lived in the fanning
and the hunt for a pulse
in a rotting wrist on the last day
of waiting.

.