At night, I leave all the lights on in my head. This way, I know the dead can find me. Sometimes they toss me their worldly trinkets: the moon, wobbly as a child’s loose tooth, a tuning fork, a spear of lightning for my song. Like a magpie, I collect them. I line my own death-nest with the baubles of the dead. Nothing, not even death, can harm me. Requiem with an Amulet in its Beak, Elizabeth Knapp