I want to give you a box of dishes
to hurl them, smash them, break them
on the floor.
Zorba the Greek’s got nothing on you.
Stomp the box to a yowling, howling pulp.
I want to give you a box of comfort
to curl inside – hiding, quiet
quiet except for the teardrops
that plink against the cardboard.
Cut air holes. Remember to breathe.
Anger sucks all the oxygen out of life.
Love doesn’t die.
Sometimes it just can’t grow.
I want to give you a box of boxes
to fill with what-ifs, to burn.
“I’m sorry for hurting you.”
You say. Or did she?
In your hands, a little box,
half-full of hard-won answers,
pokes you as you hug good-bye.
© Copyright 2012, Jane Harkins. All Rights Reserved.