I made some revisions to the content as well as the order I invite you to read them both if you're so inclined, I'm curious to get feedback on which you prefer.




on the concrete
next to the old black tires
piled eight high in the corner
I cradled your cardboard urn.
I took you by the careful spoonful
from your cylinder grave,
carefully into the twenty
blue velvet bags
so that others could
cast you away,
meticulous in my recipe;

three scoops each
(except for your mother,
five for your mother)
no bones
(I sifted out what
the firing machine left behind)
drawstring tight to keep you in
(not that your family was careless)

and in the darkness
of the dimly-lit tow yard
the wind came
dry and hot from the mountains,
spilling bits of you between
the hairs of my legs,
forcing me to brush you away.
(you mixed with the gravel then
and I could not tell the difference)

but then it did not matter.
five years since your passing
I no longer saw your face
in your ashes,
saw death instead,
turned your cardboard urn
to watch the last of you
rise and fall
against the sides.
(I felt its heavy weight
on my hands and
its chalky smell
on my tongue)
imagined myself
crushing the hard pieces,
grinding them to dust,
searching for death's indiscretions
like some greedy miner for gold
in the California hills,
the wide-eyed fingering of your bones.




OLD VERSION

in the darkness
of the dimly-lit tow yard
on the concrete next to the old black tires
piled eight high in the corner,
I cradled your cardboard urn.
I took you by the
careful spoonful
from your cylinder grave
carefully into the twenty
blue velvet bags
so that others could
cast you away,
meticulous in my recipe;

three scoops each
(except for your mother,
five for your mother)
no bones
(I sifted out what
the firing machine left behind)
drawstring tight to keep you in
(not that your family was careless)

occasionally the wind
came dry and hot from the mountains,
spilling bits of you between
the hairs of my legs
forcing me to brush you away.

You mixed with the gravel then
and I could not tell the difference.

but it did not matter;
five years since your passing
I no longer saw your face
in your ashes
saw death instead
felt its heavy weight
and its chalky smell.


Now when I want to know death
I imagine your urn,
imagine myself crushing
the hard pieces of you
turning them to dust and
panning them through a sieve
searching for death's indiscretions
like some greedy miner for gold
in the California hills,
the wide-eyed fingering of your bones.

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