The Wounded Gazelle Look

After you depart, I act on your request:

To a mountaintop or to the Ganges.

To seek a Somewhere for ashes to scatter.

A sacred campaign to Varanasi, I voyage.

But a sadhu stops me, his ocher loin cloth

Slipping off his hip toward a bleeding knee.

His ashy cheeks mirror what’s left of you,

Nesting inside the black urn I clutch.

He presses a finger—hard—on each eyelid.

In blindness, I hear him mouth the order:

“She is meant for the high ground.

Not the river. Take her home—high

On a mountain for best soul’s release.”

Shaking my head, I recount my trip:

“There are no mountains in my home.”

“Don’t give me that wounded gazelle look.

                   To a mountain, Go! Leave me!”

He dives into the Ganges, bouncing below

Then above the wash, naked now,

His fist rising, threatening me to flee.

And so, Varanasi is not your end spot.

To this lowly “summit” I climb,

Britton Hill—DeFuniak Springs—Florida.*

Less than the musical flow of Varanasi.

Can 345 feet be a mountain?

I open the lid; let you loose

Into a warm gust; just then a yellow bird

Explodes white feathers above me,

Like an anointing from a covert priest.