The Cardboard Box
The night before my father died
I leaned my head on his pillow and watched
as he wheezed and gasped like a great fish
caught in a net.
His breath came from the inside
of each sick cell, reeking
like bad meat.
I washed my hair three times
before I could curl up in my own bed
and sleep.
His breath had not stuck to me, but burned
like the sun on my skin.
The mortician brought out the box of my father's ashes,
cardboard with brown paper wrapping.
The box smelled like a shopping bag,
fresh from the market,
and felt warm,
as if a cat had been sitting on it
for a long time.
I carried the weight of my whole father
in my arms, all his bones.
Here are the last minerals his body breathed out
pure and solid
when the fire took him.