This little box of sadness,

Lacquered black with three white doves.

Inlaid with gold outlined,

And closed shut, deadlock.

But sometimes it springs open,

Releasing a silent commotion, slow motion.

One memory or two,

Like a capture, bled through.

No protection from darkness,

My fingers laced around this awful casket.

Your hand holds my other,

Faithfully wishing me too, knot.

And all the while, that ugly sweater

It’s fabric too closely woven, wēfter.

Sticks to my skin so sodden,

Remembering me - rotten, it’s rotten.