Monterey

by Zacchai (Sage) Singer

 

My grandmother, Toshiko
                              turned the box to face the door,
so that he could see his daughter's family
               as they come through the doorway
               of this old seaside house
                              where he, Papa, would whistle
                              flight of the bumblebee to us
                              all sat at the dinner table.
               My grandmother, she carries this box,
                                             the ashes of her husband Bill.

Now, she turns him back to the ocean,
                              so he watches the pelicans fall
                              slowly over the waves.
               I know he loved this,
               and to gather sand dollars,
                                             on his morning walks with his wife.
               We gather for him now, laying the bodies
                              in neat rows of full moons
                              to dry in the morning sun.
My grandmother, Toshiko,
                              more orderly without him.

We visit this house of many windows, all of which show
               scenes or faces we've witnessed times before;
               this poem has many endings,
               all of which are contained
                              in my body or the body of my grandmother,
but none of which are written here.

 

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