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The Shoebox
by Siham Karami
I never met you, but I met your bones
here in this shoebox cradled in my lap.
My friend, your lover, handed me the ruins
like a city blasted from the map.
One rifle shot, he said, out of the blue
went right through — your walls came tumbling down.
Now all you were has less weight than a shoe,
and none but me to hold these bits of bone
that flash white in the sunstruck windshield’s glare,
whose brightness burns your soul out of the box,
beyond this mountain drive, your friends that stare,
your ash bequeathed to winds that shift and flux,
until we stand like strangers in your wake —
shoes off, speechless, at your shining break.
Siham Karami lives in Northwest Florida and is co-owner of a wholesale technology business, married and mother of five mostly-grown children. After many years, she has returned to writing poetry.
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Published 16 March 2010