The Visit — K. Hunt

Saturday mornings in particular
When there was no school or other distractions

Box

Allure of creaking stairway
Cereal bowls and tv aside
There is time
To slip quietly
Reverently
Step by step
Down
Into the earth
Beyond the reach of sunbeams

When the dew is ripe on the grass
The pieces come together again

No running No shouting No pushing

Again and again
Earth spits up fragments of its claims
It all collects well within the enclave amid ashes and museums
Gets dug up, is found at point of shovel and tip of brush in shredded seabeds
On shelves, beside washing machines and golf clubs
And she, confluence of two great rivers
Discovers again the crypt

Box

Not of cardboard or plastic or wood necessarily
Just an old white-yellow filing carton for now
Shrouded for safe keeping
A meaningless to most dusty box of wedding lace crumbling corsage
Buried deep in the guts of this sweet love-shattering earth

In hope – the very lastest mostest thing there is

She refuses to raise the lid more than a crack
The ghost began to creep away

Indeed she only slips her nose in to remember
Scents of talc lilac dust chronicle
Pushing in only the very tip of her face
to Bambi-Thumper noses
At this fragile angle of morn

Everybody has a satchel where they keep the sweet stuff
Put things away that don’t disappear

This is the scent of the earth
The sweet love-shattering earth
And river dry