Your ashes are as heavy
as the new born son
you carried home for me
nine long years ago.
I am the carrier now
I bear you home with ease.
I had expected the warm
fragility of cigarette ash evoking
the floury softness of your body.
Not these abrupt, raw
unfamiliar flakes of slate.
In life you were never so angular.
I hold you in my hands,
crunch and prod
the bones of you.
I squeeze the plastic bag
with child-like fascination.
Speckled flinty shards
tumble over themselves.

I long to lick my finger
and dip it into the ash
and taste your skull,
roll a thought you had
inside my cheek,
to mingle the grounds of your ankle with
my evening coffee,
to smear a powered thumb
over my closed eyelids.
To selfishly hoard the whole of you
inside my starving body.