Ashes

You asked me to strew your ashes

in the stream where you angled for

catfish every Sunday morning,

but I spread them in the garden

you made me turn on summer days,

as you drank and watched on the porch.

A prickly shrub has taken root

in the place where you are interred,

a bramble of roses and thorns.

Some days, I try to uproot you,

splinter my fingernails as I

shovel hands into the hard earth,

wrap fingers around rigid stalks,

wrench as tears streak my grimy cheeks,

lacerate my hands; then give up.

When I sit on the porch and drink,

I think of your smug, smiling face,

as my son crawls across the grass.