Mom’s ashes:
Tiny memories. Fragments
of her mind, my mind.
All contained in a box.
Have a cup of tea and
would you like to see my memories?
There, in the box, they have been purified, you see,
burned in the pyre and then
ground down—to the basics.
Like sand. But not really.
There is no world, to paraphrase Blake’s fine lines,
within that grain: A gritty
calcified blend of phosphates,
sodium and potassium.
No, no world, just remains.
And memories.
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