the box

An inheritance
arrived in a box,
thousands of letters
and photographs
too heavy to carry.
In his journal
I was in third person.

He drank
himself to death
found days after
his heart exploded.

I did not
warn him
of his indulgence
blind to influence
to make a difference.

We were young, love
came like quicksilver:
willful      fragile.
We spent time,
his other time

She calls every night
I am the connection
to a dead son:
did the box arrive, dear?
I don’t pick up, how
she never called him.

he stands in the corner
watching my sleep
safe from his demons
I suspect.

revised from an earlier version

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