All this fuss over not being 
objectified, only to be enshrined 
in a wooden box or metal vase.
Some of us send our children on a boat

to unload their grief into a stray wave 
that we may be tucked into a seabed,
blanketed by foam and yesterday's plastic,
knowing we'd sneak back to shore,

jetsam refugees waiting to be pat down 
into sloppy castles by tomorrow's children 
and rinsed in each darkness thereafter
until our bodies drape the corpse of the coastline

and we sing of the nothing 
that no one remains to remember.