If nothing else could rouse you
for seven days, then conclamatio—
the eager singing of your name
relentless and in group, the gathers
of robes touching one great circle—
commenced. And on the eighth night
of no response the pollinctores came;
doused you with a dust of flowers
that once made you sneeze but now
became your mask of pallid unbeing.
If you were at peace when last vocal,
your given name was called. But if
there was fear you were in peril,
nicknames confounded the nicks,
the demons that seemed to seek you.
If you were reachable in any world
other than this one, the repetition
of the word they called you by,
your name, would guide you back.