by Christina Hauck

In unison, half step back, shake of head—
sister, brother—eyes wide as I proffer
gilt box, pound of grey

ash and bone, all that remains—hands, feet
one arched eyebrow—Mother, grey as the day
as fog, as sand, and I turn, scooping

her out by the handful, flinging arcs of gray that
drift and settle, pale grey on darker sand
bending my way toward loud waves

sifting loosened arms and hair into sea’s
seething lap, slow pirouette, she sighs
and dissolves, and I look back to see through fog

ghosts of children who could not stop wanting
to touch her, mouth, ear lobes, hair
to burrow into her lap, eyes closed, sucking

stroking, kissing, who won’t touch her now
as she is, ash, and wouldn’t touch her as she became
bloated wheezing body of need I will never

forget holding even as last bits of her
arabesque through fog, grey into grey
I can never let go, fingertips and palm

rough with ash, taste of bone.

Christina Hauck was born and raised in the SF Bay Area, moved to Kansas in 1994, and lives there still. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Berkeley Poetry Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Coal City Review, Critical Quarterly, and Monterey Review, among others.