The Cleansing Cycle

i like to cling to the grime

the small grit of my father’s ashes
underneath my fingernails, 
the part of him that refused 
to fall to the rocks in the scattering

my mother’s scented oil in her hair,
her burning fat seasoning in the skillet
stinging my nostrils and eyes leaving me 
seeing smelling less than my faultering ears

his ash sticks in the wall of my lungs
trying to pressure my air to diamonds
cutting me to his symmetry trying 
always to rinse my blood of her tears