My sister and I scattered the ashes in
Bariloche. We climbed the slope with the
box in a backpack. It rattled like wood and
gravel. There were lakes everywhere. The
mountains beyond. Then the wind came.
Most of them landed in a treetop. Then we
took the ski lift down, ate chocolate.
Sometimes joy and pain arrive together. I
open the Iliad, see poplars and poppies. A
woman shoos a fly as her son sleeps
Someone looks up at the stars. After nine
years of war, glimmers of a life everyone
wants back. This is my dad in the crown of
a pine as the force of the wind bears some
of him out to the lakes and stones.


                    as when the south
...