Poem of the Week

The undertaker doesn’t warn you

about the consistency of the ashes.

Not like those of say, a cigarette.

Scattering them will not be like

when you used to blow into

the ashtrays at your grandparents’

house as if blowing the fluff off

of dandelions gone to seed, for

which you were gently scolded.

The human form is difficult to destroy

utterly. When fragments of your father's

bones thud against the ground of his wishing

forgive yourself for the shock, the momentary

turn in your stomach. When you see that his ash

has caught onto your shoes and leggings and skin

Come to see this as your first and only embrace.