Ashes from his body
under my tongue,
soft as an uncoated pill,
life reduces to soft gray.
Tiny bone fragments
rough up my mouth,
crunch like diazepam.
Half the source, my genetic code,
science I pass on to my sons.
The furnace, his last vehicle,
someone I’ll never know
pushes him into fire, an oven
for humans, a fairy tale
of common death, frequent flames,
the business of letting a body go.
I can’t stop imagining matches striking,
tiny lighters of magic, incense dramatic,
candles for a séance, campfire amusement,
dirty grill in a rainy park,
stove for dinner after dinner.
The people’s cremator turns on,
the man of my existence transforms,
DNA twists, shifts into extreme looseness.
Now ash sticks to my fingers.
I brush my teeth with his dusty lineage,
gray turns dark, a somber paste,
I forget to smile.
His larynx, now burnt, hiding
ashes to ashes in my mouth.
I forget his voice telling me quietly,
goodnight. I’m dull with mock
cannibalism as I realize
a still heart, a change,
the emptiness, inside me.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 1.
Sarah Lilius is am the author of the full-length poetry collection, Dirty Words (Indie Blu(e) Publishing 2021) and six chapbooks including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017) and Traffic Girl (Ghost City Press, 2020). Some of her publication credits include Fourteen Hills, Boulevard, Massachusetts Review and New South. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net Prize. She lives in Virginia with her husband and two sons. Her website is sarahlilius.com.
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