I made a parcel of it
and I left it there
on the kitchen table:
blue paper wrapping,
sticky-tape like plasters
over half-healed wounds,
a recycled bow, too flat
to know if it was
yesterday’s, today’s,
or tomorrow’s offering.
There it sat unopened. I left it
for a week. A small gathering
of dust spiced its coat.
Another week, and it showed signs
of someone’s handling
with a bloodless, tiny tear
ragged and ridged along the side.
A third week, and a fourth,
I left it there. I left it there
for the duration of our war,
our peace, and again the war.
My kitchen grew dark.
From the basement there were smells,
the windows cauterised the light.
Twenty years I left it there,
the ribbons now faded ligatures
holding the parcel tight,
upright, and never yielding.
But tomorrow, I swear, I’ll open it,
explore its inside spaces, haul out the silence
still unbroken, haul it out
to look at it, this useless thing
that was rejected by everybody else.
I did this once before, made a parcel
wrapped in blue, set it on my kitchen table,
lived with it for many years,
kept it, loved it, forgot it, left it,
since it reminded me of you.