The Hope Chest

"No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; 
      no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown."

William Penn

Your hope chest was calling my name for years, 
but I tottered on thresholds and wept,
too blinded by tears to look for the key.
Feckless and horny for angels to come 
in a world just less because you died.
It was my job to sort the wreckage and live. 
I gathered my wits, pried the obstinate lock
as if it were winter itself
and seasons were toys of my will.

I bounced myself like quarters
on a soldier's cot, drew a breath,
rifled through layers of dust.
Nervous talons of my hands
came across a hat pin and a letter knife -- 
sewing scissors, knitting needles --
every memory shaped into a lethal point.
Minutes passed in battle tiffs --
how do you describe a war with triumphs 
in the summits of accruing grief
that rise to watch the sadness gloat.

Meadows of death are always coarse,
thistles digging tender feet --
they ache to have a compass there
that sends them home to better times
when smiles aren't mere photographs.
Bullets of gray hailstones fired rounds
against the window's dirty pane
like chopsticks clicking savagely
in protest of an empty plate.
I came across your diary, saved it 
for the stalwart hour that never came
when pages would not cut my throat.


© Janet I. Buck

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