When my mother was reduced
to the stuff that does not burn,
we put her in a river and roots
of her beloved trees of rue, and anywhere
ashes might go unnoticed, in the city
where exile is in the air, flotsam
that rises with the sun. My sister did not
wish to be spread out, so she chose
the bay that took in prisoners
and their grandiose plots.
When the boy who lost both parents
had their funeral, he poured them over
the edge of the pier and people
said they could hear them,