1. Remains
A cardboard box cradled
my mother toward fire.
She came back
something wind’s breath
could shoo.
She hated
extravagance.
2. The Light Knife
Lightning struck our home,
the backyard tree hewn by light.
Grass scarred where the sky’s knife
opened its skin.
We dared death
to barge in.
It assured us
it could.
3. Strangers
The night before she died,
she spoke to ghosts.
Her face a blank moon.
She belonged to night.
She told me I
was handsome
but she didn’t
know my name.
4. Kindling
The lessons of her death
cannot be burned away.
Nature isn’t cruel.
It has no skin.
No desire. No shame.
All it asks us
is to return.
To be fuel.