Urning the Rite To Make Sense of It All
Urnestly, I search for words
buried beneath the veneer.
The rite way to ashes and grief.
Contained in a purple jar,
her only tear— a hoarder's memory.
Death makes no sense, the
bed relied upon— a cramped space
in the dark, not at all
what I was expecting.
No marker with flowers.
Her jar’s become a place of “cheers.”
Dad’s tears plink into his afterglow martini.
10/15/2021
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