We sifted the contents of one plastic bag into another,
saving some of her for our missing brother.
 
Then we spilled her ashes into the sea,
into the atmosphere, onto our shoes,
and then we ate of her.
 
We fed our mother to the eels and crabs
and mermaids lurking behind the rocks along Shore Road 
across from the traffic of the highway.
 
We fed our mother to the tidal strait 
linking Upper & Lower New York Bay.
 
Her ashes spilled into the shallows,
clumping into the wholeness she lacked–
black headed gulls with darkened wingtips
shrieking above her form.
 
Coming together after seven years we fed 
our mother’s ashes to the wind blowing 
five feet above the deep
while we leaned on the railing of the pier
watching waves carrying out to sea,
widening, then compressing,
returning her to Odessa.
 
We emptied mother out of a plastic bag–
only a name left, her journey just beginning–
but I see her as my children will see me 
when I am powder mixed with earth
 
and as she prayed each sabbath to three candle-flames,
for she was her father’s daughter,
haltingly we recited the mourners’ Kaddish
 
and then we ate of her
for we are our mother’s sons.