Vol 10, Num 5 :: 2011.03.11 — 2011.03.24
for my father
It was also a Wednesday
when the last remnant of him in the whole world arrived.
The rest has ground into Gulf-Coast clay,
sparkled the surface of a lapping pond,
lilted above a pigtailed girl high on the swings.
I am flesh of his flesh;
to my flesh he returned
wedged on a truck
between parcels of Extreme Elmo
and jolly plump citrus.
Like the box-in-a-box-in-a-box trick,
revealing the smallest thing in the universe,
there are careful layers:
stiff tape, an easy slice;
white shroud of a sack;
a bag,
sealed grief-fresh.
Tonight the ashes were black and coarse,
scrubbing a cross down to the skull;
but his are dense talc,
sifting, shifting in the plastic,
falling apart into lightning fissures
in my palm; finally I press them together,
cool pillow on the cheek.
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