Carroll Beauvais
You leave the urn like exhaust from a tailpipe.
There was more and more of you until there was none
left to shake out, your sputtering too far behind to see clearly.
Ashes in my face like a dandelion blown to bits,
and another year without you anyway.
This is the river thick with alligators, where we swam
even though it was muddy, and rainbows
of gasoline pooled on the brown surface.
You taught me how to ski here:
Mama wobbled behind me, tried to hold me steady,
while you threw the boat in gear, time after time, until finally,
I found my balance and stood up. You were so proud,
you didn’t turn the boat around until I fell,
and we left Mama in the water,
red visor bobbing like an apple.
All three of us took turns leaving each other in the river,
and I want to say that you yelled
and ruined everything,
but that day, you didn’t.
I want to say there never was any good in you, that you left me
and I was blameless.
But even in death, you won’t let me have this—
you demand that I leave you,
alone in this foul river forever.
Get away from me, girl, I can still hear you say, Let me be—
And from the sky, this kneeling might look like an apology
through the cloud of your white ash.
Given distance, this waving could look like surrender.