Poetry: 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.