Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Bryan Tso Jones
Rituals on the Day of Po-Po’s Funeral
I.
Incense suffuses this offering of fruit and bao
as we learn this practice of bow, kneel, kou tou.
Like a cricket, the shaved nun beats a gourd drum.
Covered in burlap,
we send grandmother on,
accompanied by the chant of our tongues.
The words fumble like children
as they follow a brass bell.
II.
Her eyelids drawn shut
by the touch of the embalmer,
my eyes were struck
by a trail of silk, woven elms.
Pink buds on her sandals graced her feet.
Words, to not remain because of worry,
birthed between the caul of our lips.
Dusted with ochre, her hands
were ringed with gold for her journey.
Our hands spread, the broken wings of doves:
my grandfather’s, mother’s, uncle’s, cousins’,
my own warm fingers touched
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