Marie Elizabeth Mali

Like a Book

I held the metal box
of my father’s ashes
before he was buried
in the columbarium.
If buried is what you call
being shelved like a book
in a marble tower
on Madison Avenue.

 

Walking in Winter

Walking in winter, breath
stinging, I pass

a small waterfall
emerging from under

the frozen lake-top,
flowing beneath the road

to cascade downhill
on the other side.

Icicles hang from rocks,
weeping, gleaming

in afternoon’s fading light.
For all my love of winter trees

stripped to reveal gritty twisting,
I hate the cold, the stiffness,

the way my eyes run
when exposed to wind.

If only authenticity didn’t require
so much dying.

 

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