By | 31 October 2021

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.

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