prayer

i.
it feels almost as if
my hands are in yours again, grandfather;
these papers are coarse and wrinkled like
your weary palms, thin and mottled as
the skin you’ve worn away. i fan them out
in circles, tracing a history of your days;
it turns out imperfect, but pretty in
an austere way. these are “hell notes”;
the term does ring a bell: the toll of
suffocating, fiery death–

ii.
–which is their sole purpose.
gingerly, we place them into
this cylindrical furnace, then step
back, always keeping a safe distance
from the hungry flames. i am reminded
of the coolness of the glass which kept us
back, shielding us from the heat
of the fire consuming you,
of the grief consuming us.

iii.
father choked on an
anguished sob then; now
he chokes on this smoke thick with memory,
silently tearing, from within, each throbbing ache
to lay, piece by piece, on the
charred remains of previous pains.
it seems he is burning the bridges to loss;
behind his blazing stare hurt must smoulder in private.
i stand by his side, but still we are alone.

iv.
i am struck with the thought that i am holding postcards:
a neat stack of them with peeling silver stamps.
i drop them into this cylindrical mailbox,
into the hands of flickering postmen, who randomly toss them
up towards the blue: all roads lead to you.
i have enclosed the naïve concern of the living:
I trust you are well? like you are on an extended vacation.
or maybe we’re the holidaying ones; well, in that case,
We’re having fun, but we’ll be home soon.

v.
like water from a faucet that trickles to a stop,
this fire dies in agony with crackles and a pop.
the sorrow it feeds on is not infinite; all that is left
is the fading smell of once-cloying incense, and this
lingering warmth fingering our heartstrings
to the tune of a eulogy. we have come to accept
that beneath these ashes, there are bits that
will not burn, but we
no longer mistake them for unfinished dreams.

the truth is they are diamonds that cannot be singed by time.