If my eyes are
bandaged, then I'm blinded by
what offers time
to heal. There was no back-draft of a mother's ashes, though the
wreath landed upside down in the ocean.
We could hardly see the mountains for the buildings, but Diamond Head
wore
cloud shadows til they dissolved. Afterwards, we talked sports in the
boat, naming players as we circled the now-drowning
ashes. My mother's remain in a
closet, awaiting transport.
Is it flesh that burns, or time? Memory is back-draft, grit in the
mouth, a scattering presence without sound. “Diamond
Head dreadnaught,” she wrote, after another scattering. We towed in a
boat that lost its steering. It's a fable, Joe said,
describing a film about fixed ideas. Death fixes us all right; we
feel the swell, but white water flashes farther in. We
re-entered the harbor, Point Panic to our left.
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