Glaze Me

I dream of my dad
when I’m with you—

whose ashes I lugged
2,329 miles—
only to place them
on a dark cellar shelf,

terrified his particles
might seep,
a pallid haze—
silica dust—
seeking fusion.

This summer
I had the chance,
to take him back to
Colorado,

spread his ashes
in Creede—where he
used to sell his pottery.

I didn’t.

There’s comfort in his
presence—
a familiarity,
slightly outweighing
the unease of torrid memory.

Much like the solace of
hope, radiating across
the expanse of our bed,

as I dream—
your hands, reaching—
a glaze of protection
over my
bisque-fired—
body.