qarrtsiluni

Piseco, August 2007

Accompanied only by
my dog, I bury Dad’s ashes
in the rock garden.

Mom asked for no fuss,
no ceremony at all,
but I invent my own:

rinsing this jar
his ashes came in
with Piseco Lake

water, then pouring it
slowly over the ash
and dirt and mint

green still in displaced
earth—a small shower
that says water we are

and water we shall be.
Dad, who rowed into
and out of the mist

every morning on this
long loved lake, might
as well rest here

as in any supernal
cloud, or marked by
any chiseled stone.

Who was water then
and is water now.
Blood, sperm, tears,

the sweat of fever,
all salted with what
we might as well call

love, and so I do.

by David Graham

Download the MP3

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::