Published on: 5/1/2015
Scattering Ashes

The wind chopped the shallow bay
our small tug skipped across
the white caps, tilted and rolled
into the troughs, headed toward
the first buoy in sight of the coast
road, we came to scatter the ashes
from the gray box, dip your hand,
throw them far, watch them sink
'look, you have some of dad on you,'
she told her brother as the wind
picked up, white ash blew into our
faces, hands stayed dusty until
we wiped them on our clean pants,
feel the bone fragments, now return
holding the railings, quiet, the box
put away again, all over in an hour
time for coffee and hors d'oeuvres
back home, the dog whining, soup
he froze himself, how did he know,
the hospital bed set up in the spare
room, but he refused, felt colder than
duty on the Aleutians during the War,
wouldn't play along anymore—
we felt the bone fragments.