Cremains

David Dodd Lee

  

You’re caught between those sheaves of light; your
mother; her baby. She’s dead now. Her voice

left in the body as weather finds itself recorded
as do rings in a tree. A divergence, the rest of us until

we also aren’t. It goes on like that, a story of regret
and oncology. When they incinerate the body something

like water is drawn from you. I thought of it as nothing,
an earthquake. Everywhere else, the smooth glide

of knees and summer showers. There wasn’t much
else I could do with the ashes, so they rode thunder

on the bench beside me. When it rained I thought it
appropriate I let myself get soaked, and a girl in

a red dress under an transparent umbrella stopped
and held her hand out. Oh mother, what you can’t

hear is the drowning of my sorrow now as you couldn’t
hear it in my absence. Missed chances. But not just ours.

  
  

  

  

David Dodd Lee is the author of ten books of poetry, is a visual artist, and Editor-in-Chief of 42 Miles Press.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: