#62 Ghat

Dusty flakes fall and land on arm, cheeks, hair. I breathe them in, brush them away, narrow my eyes so they don’t get past my ashes. They fill the air, twisting out of the fire in a column of grey smoke, then spread randomly over the onlookers. Continue to rise continue to fall continue to breathe them in.

I dream: School. Abuse. Washing. Working. I’m owned. I own. I birth. I raise. After a fashion I love.

And when she died her ashes set her free; tokens of her life caressing those who watch the pyre burn.