Glaze Me

I dream of my dadwhen I’m with you—

whose ashes I lugged2,329 miles—only to place themon a dark cellar shelf,

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

This summerI had the chance,to take him back toColorado,

spread his ashesin Creede—where heused to sell his pottery.

I didn’t.

There’s comfort in hispresence—a familiarity,slightly outweighingthe unease of torrid memory.

Much like the solace ofhope, radiating acrossthe expanse of our bed,

as I dream—your hands, reaching—a glaze of protectionover mybisque-fired—body.