DEATH Poem: Ann Ita’s Ashes, by Claire Warner

I did not wish my home a graveyard,
but good intentions delivered an urn.

I place you on a shelf, Mother,
near your wedding portrait, a porcelain
Madonna, your mother’s rosary —
gold and blue crystal,
sent home from France during World War 1.

Having you here becomes comfortable.
Like all mothers of grown children,
you are largely ignored.

Where we come from is an island,
all amniotic sea and the pounding heart of surf.
I say I’ll scatter you there, but you remain
in my home. Kept close.

Author: poetryfest

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