This Box
by Karen Shepherd
I wanted to leave it unopened,
keep it on the doorstep to be stolen,
let it get rained on or rot in the summer heat.
I don’t know who delivered it.
I contemplated giving it to someone else,
blowing it up or dumping it in the creek.
But I knew it would only be re-sent.
So, I brought it inside,
set it on the kitchen table, took the scissors from the knife block.
I felt the blade puncture the tape
before I opened the flaps.
I didn’t have to lift the contents out,
they spilled and overtook the room.
I breathed it all in,
let it enter my lungs and push through my blood,
weight my bones, flood every organ.
I let it finally occupy be.
And then it slowly drained out
and I heard the windchime in the garden,
the maple branch tapping the window,
the gate swinging back open.
keep it on the doorstep to be stolen,
let it get rained on or rot in the summer heat.
I don’t know who delivered it.
I contemplated giving it to someone else,
blowing it up or dumping it in the creek.
But I knew it would only be re-sent.
So, I brought it inside,
set it on the kitchen table, took the scissors from the knife block.
I felt the blade puncture the tape
before I opened the flaps.
I didn’t have to lift the contents out,
they spilled and overtook the room.
I breathed it all in,
let it enter my lungs and push through my blood,
weight my bones, flood every organ.
I let it finally occupy be.
And then it slowly drained out
and I heard the windchime in the garden,
the maple branch tapping the window,
the gate swinging back open.
Karen Shepherd lives in Portland, OR where she enjoys walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poetry and short fiction have been published in various online and print journals, including most recently Elephants Never, Neologism Poetry Journal, Cirque Journal and Mojave Heart Review. Follow her on Twitter @karkarneenee.