Paulann Petersen

Wake

—on the sea off Mumbai

A little roil, some turmoil, enough brine 
for a bit of foam, the launch’s motor purling.
My fingers dig into my purse, finding 
the tiny container carried with me always.
I pry it open, pinch from its contents some ash, 
the hard bits too large to be called grit,
so big in their smallness I can call them 
by nothing but their true name—
bones of my mother, bones of my father.
I sift them onto this flux 
made by a boat 
parting the water.

The Arabian Sea takes—
without hesitation—
my father, my mother.
First onto its surface in a pale streak 
of cloud-glaze. Then deep into its vast self.

How quick such transformation—
bodies first eaten by fire
are then swallowed into water’s body.
These cold remains of flame
become mineral food. 

With who created me, I feed
a sea’s dark salt blood.

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