A little something more than ashes. What? 
A sound? A syllable? A thread of light
on the anniversary of her death, yahrzeit? 
A kaddish to stir up prayers of the dead? 
A temple full of mourners? The soft tut-tut 
when they notice a stark absence on my head? 

This isn't what she’d had in mind at all.
She’d given instructions, clear and precise, 
re: details ‒ latitude, longitude, the size
of the lighthouse. Was all her talk in vain
if we should disregard her wishes, call
a rabbi, do what she least wanted? Feign 

ignorance, one might say; or, she’s no
longer here to make decisions for you.
Mourning is the deed of the living. True.
Touché, as she would say, her favorite word
along with “intertwingled”‒ portmanteau
of “intertwined” and “intermingled.” Herd

mentality was not her way. She loved
cottage cheese on a crusty slice of toast
with Thousand Island dressing, or a roast
turkey sandwich dripping Miracle Whip.
Leftovers, leftovers, leftovers! she behooved.
The gospel of her kitchen was, “Eat up!”

and nothing edible ever went to waste
if she could help it. The supermarket,
its infinite aisles like pews, demarcated
spiritual space. Her house of worship
stood proudly in a parking lot, its vast
smorgasbord of options a cruise ship

for the soul, i.e. the appetite. Late
in life she’d had a brief awakening
to God ‒ though less potent than a bee-sting ‒
read Psalms of David, ‘listened’ to a voice
she said spoke, replied; syncretic substrate
deafening her with psychological noise.

But ashes, ashes...we’d made great big plans
to scatter her bright powder to the waves
exactly as she’d always wished. Like thieves
we’d steal up the New England coast intent
on lessening our burden, in our hands
our mother’s earthly dust ‒ unsettled, scant ‒ 

filling two undistinguished plastic urns
the matter of the woman who bore us.
What would be the use of making a fuss
at this point? She left few friends and almost
no family. May you and I take turns
shouldering the guilt of this heavy ghost

loss upon loss upon loss upon loss
in ritual proper to the species
until its final moment of release
into the painted ether of her dreams
where gull and guillemot and albatross
feed on the tender mollusks, the Supremes

belt out “Reflections” for eternity
and every day is Double-Coupon Day.
Here none of her defects are on display;
only the rough-hewn waves, the antic cries
of ospreys screeching praise, and charity
of wind to coax her atoms to the skies.