BURIAL AT SEA, 1992 BY ROBERT BEGIEBING
We gather
mother, sisters, brother
on the wild rocks of Monterey Peninsula
just south of Spanish Bay and Point Joe
that ageless graveyard of ships
where two currents collide into froth-peaks
powered by kelpy swells.

My brother Richard hands me
the cheap wooden box.

I pick my way down the rocks
among pools slippery and swaying
with yellow, purple, lime-green anemones.

Legs stretched on two outcroppings
I open the box, untie the twisty,
tip the plastic bag over carefully
sending my father’s bone-flecked ash
to the water where ash swirls
on the convulsive meniscus
before sinking.

This Sonar Man Third Class
who fought in the Philippines on a
sub-hunting destroyer
has finally returned to the sea
by these rocks where he would come
to meditate or play his trumpet
unfettered by his neighbors’ ears.

Where this restless company man
this rebellious jazz musician
this anytime philanderer found—
better than any covenant of resurrection—

peace
at last.