Published by The Tiger Moth Review (Issue 2, 2019)

For years I've been trading promises with God.
Offering flowers for mercies,
fasts for protection,
money for more wealth.

And now, it’s not as if I've stopped praying,
but something's muted over the years.
When I fold my hands at the altar
I'm thinking the flowers in the vase
need to be changed,
the brand of incense leaves too much ash,
the silver needs polishing, the frames need dusting.

Cremating you
and returning to the raven blackness of our home,
I fastened the urn of ashes
to a clothesline outside the house
because it was bad omen to carry it inside.

Nothing epitomises waiting more
than a boat on the shore
or an urn of warm ashes
tied to a tree or a clothesline.

The river is the end to the wait,
the final quencher of thirst.
Tonight I lie porous.
Tomorrow the river will consume the ashes
and fill me with prayers again.