Bones Poem by Shikhandin Shikhandin

The smallest bones I collected,
still warm and sticky
from your smoldering pyre.
Mother

those charred bones symbolized
those small pieces of your life
that you had never intended
anyone to see.

I made sure
the pot containing them sank
deep into the Ganges.
I watched the bubbles bob and spit
as the pot receded

far into the waters.
Yes Mother, I did.
This was one task I did
sincerely.

(First Published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal)