This poem, on death and resurrection, I wrote in November 2009. It initially is concerned with the death of my brother Sam, but ends elsewhere.
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The Closet
You left your shoes on the floor.
Dad made me pick them up since you left.
Stuffing them in a plastic box,
I cover the stench with the lid and bury them deep into the closet
—6 feet tall.
Looking around the closet I see other clothes—
Hanging like stretched out skin,
but you only have shoes.
Held on old wire hangers and in huge boxes, are memories–
where the owners were once handsome, happy and hideous.
On the floor are those shirts that havn’t been picked up, preserved or pitied.
Unnoticed.
There’s that polyester suite from the forgotten 70’s, an itchy argyle sweater reeking of tobacco and mint candies, a black silk dress.
Tube socks.
All these along with millions of other t-shirts, pants, and underwear, line up on the crooked shelves.
Your shoes
once wet with the thrill of life, bliss, and grass stains
are now simple addition,
yet in the middle of the night I long to take them out and see them again,
but I can’t.
The closet will always be full—
till Dad finally takes them to the Salvation Army in town
–and gives us our new clothes.
our new clothes! one day em! one day
I remember when you first wrote this, and I was like…Em’s a poet. This is beautiful.
Lord bless you today, Em.