Poetry: Boxes

Boxes

brightened by the sunlight on the upper landing,

death feels ridiculous. here i am wearing a coat

made of beavers, a gift from grandpa when they

were courting, swaying through london in stilettos

on the way to the theatre - laughing, probably.

(did they laugh loudly in those days?

did they indulge in such displays of affection?)

we stood outside the church and i cracked jokes

in the face of all that awkwardness. before the guests

arrived in a line of solemn faces i barely recognised,

we talked about our own individual deaths;

our family who always planned for the worst, the realists,

and i declared "throw me in a woodchipper instead."

that morning i looked through all her things -

there is so much here, so many boxes

boxes which are conduits for other objects

and some which are just boxes, boxes

for boxes' sake; wooden, brassy and ornate.

what a waste to lay you in a coffin wreathed with roses,

skin like an avocado candle, dressed in a white gown

bought specifically for the occasion.

when the pizzas we ordered after the funeral arrive

i realise it is around this time that they are shovelling

your body into an industrial oven, and days later will

return you in yet another box

for us to find a home for.