This time, I take the ashes and the bones
in both my hands and hold them. It's raining,
and we're knee deep in the Ganges, soaked
to the skin and holding him who has none.
The bones are hollow, gritty, and so many,
as if a thousand birds had crashed in flight,
the impact burning up their flesh and feathers.
I watch my father pick these flowers, hold
one in his hands, examine it for signs
of where it's been, what function, but his tears
spare him the recognition. Standing here,
placing the bone and ash upon the surface,
I let the current take them, and I look
to see the petals flash against the gray.
Instead, the rain comes harder. Everything blurs.
I rub my hands together in the water,
then climb the gravel bank, grabbing a stone­
pitted and flecked with quartz-to carry back.