There is no hallmark card for this.
I watch you walk away from me,
further upwind, watch you pull your father
from a box, open his ziplock – watch him
slip through the cracks of your loose fist
into a wind ready to wipe lives clean,
ladle death down valleys.
I swear the ashes take a form
before they separate forever.
You told me that, for you,
he died twice. Once
was a lie we don’t understand.
This time you pull a certificate of cremation
from the tin, then photographs.
I see your face in his.
