December 1, 2010

Devika Brandt

HOW TO KEEP HER

Some Japanese send their dead to the mountains
where they can be spoken to, they keep a house altar
as interpreter, a place for conversation, to ask advice,
or lay out troubles. Painted bowls brim with rice

as compensation. My mother’s ashes are capped,
stored in a porcelain urn inside a plastic box
that’s sealed, tight, against investigation.
My brother and I want to take some out, to keep

our own stash, but it’s illegal to parcel out your mother.
Only the mortician can scoop her, not family. Perhaps
we are too close to touch, who knows which body part
might smudge beneath the fingertips. So intimate

to separate her pieces. The tulips near her picture
begin their forward lean. They have opened wide
in the warm room, one she only sat in once, edging
ever closer to the fire where she pulled at the swollen joints

of her fingers. Even that day, as we spoke, we continued
to misunderstand. Today I mailed her tea towels
to someone else’s mother, some with birds stitched on them,
their colors the deep green of hills when you see them from far away.

from Rattle #33, Summer 2010