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By Jill Battson

Jill Battson, whose first ebook of poems, 'Hard Candy', shook the poetry institution through its well-starched neck, is again with a moment breathtaking selection of lyric and elegiac poems. those are poems that aren't afraid to call genuine humans and actual areas, poems that enjoy the relationships that make our lives, after all, worthy residing. The e-book maps the best way via grief and restoration. The poems -- sensual, demanding and probing -- record Battson's mom and dad' dying and the aftermath that loss leaves in the back of. in addition they deal with the method of restoration, pulling seriously at the trip for discovery either tangible and emotional. Battson's poems are uncooked and gorgeous, tricky and flowing, intensely evocative and imbued with the language and imagery of intercourse.

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Extra resources for Ashes Are Bone and Dust

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Final journeys take longer than life sometimes. This is their beginning. -36- Ashes are Bone and Dust When the bone fragments arc to earth the wind picks up the dust from the ashes before they settle to the ground separating them on the wing and blows the dust out off the summit of the hill across the countryside it is then the magic happens as the wind has along its body particles of the dust a cloud that forms and reforms moving out over the land in a mobile body as if the two spirits are truly joining contemplating each other for a moment rolling and swirling and forming in a comfortable courtship of familiarity moving more slowly than the wind a heavy mass suspended but travelling out over the leaden quality of the stillness of Wiltshire I fully expect their two figures to become visible and smile down on me before melting on the cradle of the wind.

Inside are plastic liners. Inside the plastic liners are the ashes of my parents. On the left my father is heavier than my mother, his ashes lighter in colour. On the right my mother crumbles, considering. I've found two new glass spice jars with vacuum lids in the pantry. In each one I measure a teaspoon of each parent and mix together. The most careful action I have executed in months. A jar for my sister, a jar for me. Fragment reminder of their bodies, tangency of souls. Like a Victorian hair broach, twisted locks of the dead surrounded by jet.

The plastic grey, speckled. A bird's eggshell cylinder mural. I wanted a new bucket. Not one already existing in the household, sullied by minute traces of potato peelings, earth, the carrot and bile chunkiness of vomit. I want the sterile sharpness of bone fragments clean. Fresh in their newness. Nothing mingling. On this day fifty-five years ago the hoarfrost would be down. Winters being colder then. The same sky. The same blue. Stomachs fluttering with the anticipation of individual lives Unking.

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