IV. The Carrion’s Keepsake

A locket of hair and a splinter of bone, Left on a nightstand of weathered, grey stone. The mirror is tarnished, a silver-edged lie, Where the reflection has started to wither and die. The curtains are heavy with dust and with doubt, Blowing in winds that have blown the stars out.

I open the box where the memories are kept, Where the beetles have feasted while everyone slept. A ribbon of velvet, a tooth in a jar, The cold, jagged remains of a falling star. The jewelry is weeping a rust-colored tear, For the pulse of the owner who used to be here.

“Hold me,” the trinkets all whisper in unison, Their voices like dry leaves or skin that is translucent. I reach for a ring, but it fits like a noose, A bond with the dead that I cannot unloose. The floorboards are opening, hungry and wide, To welcome the keepsakes that linger inside.

You’ll wear the cold metal, you’ll carry the weight, A ghost in a gown at a rusted-shut gate. For the things that we leave are the things that we are, A stain on the carpet, a permanent scar.