by Shikhandin

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

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
sincerely.

• Read "A Cup of Fine Tea: Shikhandin's "Bones"" here.
• Read Tammy Ho's commentary on "Bones" here.
• This poem was nomnated by Cha for the Pushcart Prize 2011.