Death of a child

Little Things

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It’s not the Persian carpet, the house , car or jewels,

but the little things that whisper or suggest

even when they’re silent what I little know,

of where, when, why, who or even what about her life gone by:

 

Her medicine chest, kitchen and pantry, bedsheets and closets;

eleven hard drives in a plastic ziplock — meticulously destroyed.

An unspent bullet  in still stale air and cluttered dark.

A crochet hook, sewing kit, items for recycling.

 

Old  photographs, TP and paper towels;

Bank statements, letters, perfume, and lotions,

Detergents, linens, a dog dish and bird feeder–  half full.

A mail box, still alive,  when emptied, cries out

for a little more,  until rewarded with delicious junk mail  and collection letters.

 

Pills, notions, lotions,  purses, shoes, clothes,

and a hundred hand written pages from a lined spiral notebook

filled with fear and voices speaking in silent audibles.

Dry plants, and flower beds, disconnected sprinklers, old hoses and garden tools.

 

Cruel little things speak in their sharp edged forked foreign tongue.

Sad little things  that hint of little pleasures, big plans, and hope of love.

I follow the footpaths through the underbrush of her tangled troubled life.

I walk there barefoot aware and wary of thorns, adders, asps, and broken glass.

 

The little things leave weeping little cuts that still wait and want to heal.