I am going to have to say no
      to my first son’s hawthorn 
and no to my second son’s 
      ash.  And that won’t be 
enough: it’s almost December, 

the boys’ bodies breaking
      ahead for the trees, arms high, 
tearing the rag sky to cinders.  
      She was our cat Bea
and she came here like we did

to rest.  She will need their hands
      and rain pooled by a firm
pine.  Into the dirty waters of our dead
      the ash that was flesh becomes
precious. Hard light drags its claw
        
through the brine.  I find 
      a needled sapling and drop 
the box, too square for her leaps
      and hungers.  My first son
kicks a rock and my second
        
lifts strips of sodden bark, mottled
      like old fur, pressing them 
in mud.  He grabs the box. He sings 
      and digs his hands in.  
He lurches and sings as if there can be 

no grief: ash spills and whitens 
      his sneakers like snow.  Now 
our grief‘s a mess, nothing her needled tongue 
      would approve.  The boys leap
for torn leaves.  They can’t be sure

how they care.  When I die I am sure
      it will be November and the bodies
around me now will steam in cold 
      white air.  My son’s sneakers 
are red with the plastic blood

of superheroes and gray and white
      with the memory of breath.
I am going to have to carry
      him out of here: his feet will mark
my legs the way sparrows stain bark 

with whistle’s salt, their song’s sour desire.

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