40 days of poeming a mother. The second.

I stare at the day’s fresh
ashes

even your blonde curls
burn down
brown

a dull gray
and grief does not
slow for traffic
or July’s desperate

fireworks,
the noise promises
to be over
when we draw blanks

when the ashes
of remembering
run out

but today
begins without
your call

my back burning
the kitchen wall

my moistened thumb
ready to turn the page
sliding inside
your silver urn
stealing what’s left

the safety
of ash cross
on my forehead

the cosmos
of you
has marked me,
a bull’s
open eye