The map was a body

And it all went up in flames.
                                                                       Yes, that’s right I have his ashes,

                                                                       Mostly here. Some were given 
I can’t tell you favourite landmarks

Anymore. I liked all of it.
                                                                       To his brother and his sisters,

                                                                       To his mother and his father.
There was a place I often visited.

My son was with me. When I dream,
                                                                       We walked his favourite trail, the

                                                                       Piedra Lisa, and scattered his ashes.
I can find my way there again.

There are cottonwoods, wild clematis.
                                                                       The wind blew the ashes against

                                                                       My face, into my hair. I remembered
Next to a field, Ojito de San Antonio,

I often see a man. He is facing
                                                                       Lying with my head on his chest

                                                                       In the night, the way he smelled of cedar.
Away from me, into the wind.

Sometimes when my son looks
                                                                       I keep the rest in a box next to my bed.

                                                                       The wind doesn’t get a second chance.
Down at me, from his bed, I think:

This is the face of the man.
                                                                       When I flew with his ashes from New Mexico

                                                                       To Australia, the Customs Officer asked me:
The child will turn, and there

The map will be.
                                                                       What is in this heavy box? My sister-in-law

                                                                       Talked for me. Everyone else was quiet.
In a box, I have a map.

On the bed, sleeping
                                                                       Scales tilted like a compass. The airport turned

                                                                       Its eyes on me, the person with the heavy box. 
There is a small boy.

He will know the way.