IN THE BOX

I.

"They messed up his mouth."  

Momma scolds the funeral home,

under her breath,

as her hand tentatively hovers

over your closed face.

Now, your lips are thin smudges

that barely cover the teeth.
Your lips were full once.

I remember.

I used to watch them.

As a child,

I watched

as they told stories, jokes, and dreams

while we all sat at the kitchen table.

The words that came then were

more restful than sleep.

I watched too

to distract myself from

the ungodly fear that I felt

when their pursing gave way to

the clench of your fists.

II.

You are so small,

like a child

wearing his father’s suit,

as you lie there

in the box.

Ten years before,

the suit fit you well.

I remember.

You sat at your desk

counting the days take,

pausing at intervals to

wet your finger with your tongue

to make the job easier.

With head down and

eyes focused intently

on your task,

you asked if I would be coming home

for the holidays.

I made some excuse,

a hollow one, that

made it obvious that

you would not be seeing me

that year.

Just for a moment,

you looked up.

The expression on your face was

the same one you wore

the night that

Momma fell.

I was shocked and

glad.

III.

To my surprise,

the box holds more than

a once was,

hastily bound together with

paper, wire, and glue.

All of your wounds

have risen to the surface.

I stand,

I look, and

I can't help but wonder:

Which ones did I inflict?