There’s not much in this house that can be packed –
not the wall where a child’s milestones were tracked,
the books yes, but not the afternoons when
they were read. A knife, not what it’s cut open.
That’s always sliced solely to be left behind.
There’s nothing much really that can be taken
however small they’re chopped and folded compact,
however ruthlessly downsized and streamlined.
The fruit's consumed, the tree can't be uprooted -
taking a few cases will not recreate
the skin, the existence you’ve moulted out of.
What’s here is here, it cannot be rerouted,
moved smoothly to a different plane and state.
All you’ll carry is faint memories of love.