Today's poem is by Gail White
My mother was burned, not buried,
as if we were afraid that she
would rise up out of a concrete vault
and trouble her family.
We didn't choose any garments
to be worn to the end of time.
Her jewelry was shared out equally
among her sisters and mine.
There was no religious service,
and no ridiculous wake.
Nobody brought us food or flowers
or had any coffee and cake.
We burned her body's corruption
in a pure white seamless flame.
We didn't bury my mother,
but she's walking just the same.
Copyright © 2015 Gail White All rights reserved
from Asperity Street
Able Muse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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