Distant cousins,
faceless in Oregon,
mailed back
her scanty ashes –
a pint-sized
paper carton
sealed with tape –
and asked for
proper burial
in Iowa. So this
was Tot,
my father's aunt,
who each year
sent a box
of Christmas holly;
Aunt Tot,
come home at last,
leaking her dust
from the seams
of a crumpled box.
So Dad
and the minister
took her out
to the family plot,
and with a borrowed
post-hole digger
dug a post hole
six feet deep,
and put her in,
and prayed for good
Aunt Tot,
and filled the hole
with Iowa.