What has a beginning
has an end, he often said

My father-in-law’s body enters
the round opening of the cremator
that looks like a ruined MRI machine.

What could his daughter do but turn
away after a last look and allow 
the hands of the fire to do what they do. 

We recall his words—what has a 
beginning, has an end. And return 

home, to see, the wall-clock has stopped.

And from the other side of the day
he flows out, grey, warm, slowly 
like a scan report, cheap as ash.

One by one all meanings burn.

Next day, between the riverbanks
my wife and I note the vastness of 
the water to the size of our tears.

Together, we let go of the urn. 

The one big wound, called the universe, 
expanding. And the wait begins
to see him again. Just for one more time.

Weeks turn futile as the eyes learn 
again to see days from nights. Then,

one night after he visits my wife, 
he visits me with his toothless smile 
and stays til daybreak. We earn just 

that much of him and break our silence. 
A knot within, unties. And like the sudden 
tick of an idle clock, our feet move on

to the window, to let the sun in 
and save his beloved bedside crotons, 
and ferns forgotten since, thirsty and dry.