Poetry
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.
* Britton Hill in DeFuniak Springs is the highest elevation in the state of Florida.
This poem was included in a book marking World Poetry Day 2025. It was published by Moonstone Press in the Spring of 2025.
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