The Breakwater at Venice Pier
Barnacles crust the sodden bones, storm-
beaten as they hold up the walkway–
petrified like popcorn, kelp-
wrapped and spread around the pilings
in emerald spirals, welcoming the docking fishing boats
at dawn. Sara brought our grandfather's ashes
in a Folgers coffee can, label
handwritten & peeling at the edges, her fingers
tight in their grip, white-knuckled around the rim.
From jetty rocks, the harbor seals watch
the unburdening, whiskers twitching
like piano wire, as seagulls wheel
overhead—razor-beaked garbage trucks
with voices endlessly off their hinges.
Unscrewed the plastic lid slowly, the dust
revealing what becomes of forty years
of Marlboros at the fish cannery:
bone fragments broken like shells, ash
pale and fine as powdered chalk.
The wind caught him first—swirling
into the breakwater, purple clusters
of mussels like bruised fingernails, where
sea anemones pulse, their mouths opening
just to shut, their tentacles slicing
through the tide pools' cathedral quiet.
I held her elbow as she tilted the can,
felt the rigging of her body shake
in its squall. The Pacific swallowed him
in silver gulps, and I watched
a cormorant dive where the last
of his particles settled,
its black wings slicing water, gone
pewter with forgiveness.