Ashes

When the undertaker dropped off
the box labelled with her name,
I took it gingerly, touching

not the container of ashes
but the handles of the tote bag
he bore her in like another

errand to be run. I hadn’t browsed
among the urns of polished wood and gilt
so she waits in plain black plastic

for her daughters to release her
into the river of her choosing
as she waited in her armchair

two towns over, tended
by strangers, all day
for her calls to be answered.