Posthumous by Jean Nordhaus

Would it surprise you to learn

that years beyond your longest winter

you still get letters from your bank, your old

philanthropies, cold flakes drifting

through the mail-slot with your name?

Though it's been a long time since your face

interrupted the light in my door-frame,

and the last tremblings of your voice

have drained from my telephone wire,

from the lists of the likely, your name

is not missing. It circles in the shadow-world

of the machines, a wind-blown ghost. For generosity

will be exalted, and good credit

outlasts death. Caribbean cruises, recipes,

low-interest loans. For you who asked

so much of life, who lived acutely

even in duress, the brimming world

awaits your signature. Cancer and heart disease

are still counting on you for a cure.

B'nai Brith numbers you among the blessed.

They miss you. They want you back.