Poetry / September 2010 (Issue 12)


by Shikhandin

The smallest bones I collected,
still warm and sticky
from your smoldering pyre.

those charred bones symbolized
those small pieces of your life
that you had never intended
anyone to see.

I made sure
the pot containing them sank
deep into the Ganges.
I watched the bubbles bob and spit
as the pot receded

far into the waters.
Yes Mother, I did.
This was one task I did

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