We had you pushed into the furnace;

spoiling organs and

leaking skin were

burned away.

Your pulverized bones

resemble beach sand in

Tawas,

fittingly.  

Abandoned the wagon

again,

Cos I’m a goddamned tyrant,

missing you, Mother—

been consuming for two

twelve hours, and I

will continue to imbibe until my barbican

heart has been razed.

This early morning,

trust,

I’ll make it to market by noon—

I learned how to function from you.

Mother,

are you proud of me,

still?

I ask your ashes kept in

keepsake urns. Ashes—

granules, the color of

beach sand.