Something has to happen to dead things:
Buried or burned. Offered as alms to the birds.
Even if a person leaps into the sea, or is flung,
the flesh may float and then be found.
I keep coming across a padded envelope—it used to be
in a dresser drawer, but then it landed
in the walnut cupboard, which is fitting, because
my mother loved that ancient piece of furniture,
found in a barn sale, carefully restored—long
before the help of YouTube. How on earth did she
know what to do? Now that her death was decades ago
I can’t recall what else we did with her cremains
but this packet is labeled: “Mama’s last ashes”
and from the heft of it, it’s not a lot.
No idea where I thought this double handful of bones
and dust might ultimately belong when I took possession,
but an urn on a mantel, or in a columbarium,
would never be the right place for my mom.
Perhaps I should start taking them with me everywhere
in case I suddenly recognize someplace she might like.
–
Annie Stenzel (she/her) is a lesbian poet whose work has appeared in Atlanta Review, Kestrel, Lily Poetry Review, Night Heron Barks, rust + moth, Saranac Review, Thimble, Third Wednesday, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She lives on unceded Ohlone land within walking distance of the San Francisco Bay.