On the Fourth Morning, After Cremation
i.m. Prakash Vati Chandhok, 1914-1989
The men do this: Remove their shoes. Step down
the long gray stairs into the ash. Wade in
and run their fingers through to find, still warm,
the pieces of her bones that have endured.
Collect the fragments. Fill a burlap sack —
not large — it might hold rice or flour if not
these bones. Scoop handfuls of rose petals, soft
as ash, into the bag. Then tie it up.
For hours, drive the road along the river.
Look to the cold, worn landscape. Find the spot,
the clearing where the river’s arc casts back
the daylight. Disembark. Remove their shoes.
Roll up their pantlegs to the knees. Wade in
across the stones to where the current’s swift
but tender. Balance and untie the bag.
By handfuls, place her gently on the water.
And I do this: Stand on the shore and strain
to see. Compelled, unbidden, I remove
my shoes, and roll my pants, and gingerly
negotiate the river and its stones.
I’m taken in. I do not cast the bones
but watch as, with the petals, she departs.
She travels fast, her stiffened body gone.
The petals dance upon the surface, flash
then flicker, undiminished, in my eye.