You can’t uncremate your grandmother.
You can’t think of regret as a town
you move to when grief snores too loud
in every room. You can’t siphon her dust
back into your arms, and if you could
she’d still be gone, still be the coat of grey
settling on the windowsill. Be grateful
for the first child who dug a hole
and thought mother. Be grateful that we bury
our dead and not leave them where they died:
bodies flooding over highway medians; the bed you shared
and will continue to share with your grandmother;
North Minneapolis, a sea of leather
ruined by heat. In death we belong to everyone
who can pass our names through their warm mouths,
who can smell the rotten air without flinching,
who can tilt their noses up into the sky and think family.