For four years, I kept your ashes in the trunk of my caró
they rode with me to work and back home
along the highway's greased tube of air.
Someone will say: what a perfect
American burial. Evenings, I pushed the remote
and the garage door unsealed like the door of a crematory.
Then, all night, the day's accumulated heat
slipped out of you. I never even
removed the box from its postal packaging.
Finally, I took the box of ashes to the beach
where once I'd watched you swim,
drunk, in the turbulent aftermath
of a hurricane. I tumped the dust
at the lip of the waves and they swallowed it up.
It was easy as that.
The Southern Review