After we put my grandmother to sleep
in an incinerator, they returned her
to us in a tin cube along with a plastic bag
full of things that refused to melt: nails, screws,
a titanium kneecap. Her wedding ring,
still solid, was placed in the urn surrounded by her
dust, her, and I thought skin was the only thing
holding one’s body together. She sat on the bookshelf
for months. Not sure what to do with our beloved
debris. What mountain or gust of wind? What seaside
cliff or bathroom drain? Whose lungs would take her
on a grand adventure? Most of her jingling joints kept
in a Ziploc bag, like bullets, serving no purpose
outside of a body—It took my mother eight years
to accept me for being gay. For eight years I sat
and watched my house burn. I watched her save the baby
photos but leave the baby—I know I should be grateful
that she came around at all. That she forgave me.
I’ve been told that it’s not her fault. It is how she was
raised. I’ve been told it’s our family’s old way
of thinking. I’ve been told to forgive this
stubborn inheritance, this thing that has lived
inside her, and her mother, and her mother’s father—
I’ve been told that once you’ve been stabbed, it is better to leave
the blade inside the body—removing the dagger will only open
the wound further. Forgiveness will bleed you thin. If you ignore
it, your skin could close around the metal. This is a part of you
now, this is all you will find when my body crumbles, this vengeful
child, this shiny grudge, a thirteen-year-old boy crawling
from the ashes, holding a gas can in his hands.