The pyre smolders wetly

under the tin shed,

from which

grey

afternoon

rain

still

drips;

echoing

a family’s

grief.

sifting through

grandmother’s still-warm ashes,

my fingers taste

the wood-smoke and sour-milk scent

of funeral rites;

i blindly grope for the largest shards of bone,

to fill the clay urn

with the remains of a life.

down by the

clear-cold river,

gathered to bid farewell,

her daughter holds up a

carpal fragment:

“such strong bones at

ninety-two

mama always drank a glass

of milk

after her evening peg”