Counting the years of his absence,
the child’s repetition, I stand at the
door smoking a cigarette.
Ashes land like snowflakes on the
step of a bright Spring day.
My father sits inside a small box
with his eyes closed.
I paid cash for his ashes. Carried
them home on the floorboard of my
Guru in seclusion, flesh and action
trapped. My father breathes motes,
flecks of dust, particles preserved
in a bed of pleura.
Deep inside a barefoot lung I empathize
About the Author: Lisa Zaran
Lisa Zaran is the author of eight collections of poetry including Dear Bob Dylan, If It We, The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl. She is the founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices. When not writing, Zaran spends her days in Maricopa county jails assisting women with remembering their lost selves.