the box

An inheritance

arrived in a box,

thousands of letters

and photographs

too heavy to carry.

In his journal

I was in third person.

He drank

himself to death

found days after

his heart exploded.

Then,

I did not

warn him

of his indulgence

blind to influence

to make a difference.

We were young, love

came like quicksilver:

willful      fragile.

We spent time,

his other time

wasted.

She calls every night

I am the connection

to a dead son:

did the box arrive, dear?

I don’t pick up, how

she never called him.

Now,

he stands in the corner

watching my sleep

safe from his demons

I suspect.

revised from an earlier version