Dad
Staring at your urn all I can think is how human remains
look like cocaine. Or so I was told. I think to test it.
Pry open the urn but I’m afraid nothing will be inside
and maybe this is all one sick joke. You’re living alone,
always alone, God I hate that you were alone
when you toppled over, a leaning tower of destruction.
I’ll stitch you together, like I made father’s day cards but
glue can’t stick to ashes. Maybe you’re in hiding and
at my wedding you’ll reappear to walk me down the aisle
and I miss your scent and embrace and my ignorance
because there’s no such thing as angels or demons only
you. Alone with drugs that look like ashes and fear that tastes
like Dr. Pepper and days spent mini golfing. You win, I
keep the score cards and your bandana but it’s not you.
It’s not flannel shirts and eggs with mayonnaise and who
will offer me a pickle with every meal and call me
linda consentida, mi corazon, mi hijita? I can’t remember
what your hands look like. God, maybe I can fit in the urn
and do all human remains look the same? Can I pick out
your self-hatred like coal in sand? Or was that burned
in the crematorium as well? Your life was a flame.
Not calm and lovely but a wild fire decimating everything,
especially you. I’ve heard that after a wild fire the earth
is ripe for growth and although the landscape has been
forever scorched flowers will bud so now I live
in waiting for Spring to replinish what this inferno stole.