I want to liberate her sandy
fragments but Daddy won’t

spring for a columbarium.  I try
to pry open the fake marble

urn with a butter knife, replace her
with all-purpose flour. He’d never know.

I’d release her into the muddy
waves of the Cumberland, her pidgeon

colored dust surging. Some
say there’s an inborn

light in the bones
of saints. Consider St. Agatha. The faithful

trek to Palermoto be close to whisps
of her braided hair, the small

bones of her upperarm. Saint Mother
rests urn-tight on Daddy’s

living room table. Monthly I make
my pilgrimage & rant

at what’s left of her. Beloved
lush in a Girl Scout

leader’s snappy felt. Our Mother
of Wine-in-a-Box, you never

forgot the Tooth Fairy, you covered
my bad checks. Pilgrims still

pay homage to St. Foy leaving,
century after century, small

jewels behind: opal, emerald,
topaz. Broken mamacita, today

I wear the jade & silver
pendant you bought to celebrate two

months sober in ‘87 & return
to your ashes to haul

them away. Daddy’s got a girlfriend
now & with me is St. Margaret, the scamp,

a richman’s mistress & blessed
sinner St. Angela of Foligno, a hedonist

& terrible gossip. Gather in
female saints & sisters. Let’s walk

down to the turbulent
river & like fireflies we’ll light

up & whirl. We’ll bark & yowl
like a skulk of foxes. I’ll hurl

your gravely bits — finally —
into the river’s coiling

currents. Unmanagable creator,
my mama — goodbye.