Mythic Beaver

Yes, I’ll haul your ashes

back to Oklahoma,

the Lord G-d of Abraham

riding shotgun.

I got the coffee sweats already,

just Him and me on I-55,

you in a box on the seat between.

We aim for that dent in the dust

where your pa was born

in a sod stable

and your ma minced a snake

with a garden hoe;

that place the trappers named

Beaver, not thinking, for once,

of women.

Reminded too much of Texas,

G-d and I both hate

the cottonwoods

stuck to a high sky.

We share a drink,

swap our lies,

and sift out what we can

from the radio.

Your name comes up

and G-d’s eyes get dusty.

When Gene Pitney sings

the “Sh’ma Yisrael,”

G-d stares out,

that box of ashes inside His jacket,

as close as He can hold it.

There’s Beaver at nightfall,

and bean burritos

to wash down the beer.

We scatter your ashes

where we stop to pee,

the Lord G-d’s laugh

steady as a train blows,

soft as lightning across the panhandle.