child loss / grief / patpatforever / poetry / progress

Box

It’s what I do with shadows
avoid the sneak attack of grief
duck, dodge, and swing
but it always finds me

It’s the wicker that your flicker’s in
six feet deep
the saddest shape in all the land
the small rectangle it leaves

It’s the white one with a satin bow
where I keep your things
a lock of hair, Target receipt
prints of both your hands and feet
clothes they cut off hastily
amber necklace never bequeathed
lost in an ambulance
never again seen

It’s where I hold my ache inside
a rough dam for the stream
though it flows and grows
and touches upon
everything that’s me

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3 thoughts on “Box

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