Officepak of the Dead

by MICHAEL W.THOMAS

With forefingers, press back so flaps a and c fold upwards.
Push gently with thumbs on the ridges created.
The semi-circles of a and c will now slide under grooves b and d.
Ensure that the shouldres of a and c are flush against the grooves indicated.
Set the box upright.
The semi-circles are now visible in the base.
With thumbs and forefingers, press down and check for firmness.
Peel backing from securing strips ei and ii.
Gently affix over semi-circles and c. Level off. Ensure against bubbles of air.

And when the semi-circles run flush at the grooves,
there is a small sigh such as you might make
in the middle of a street, when jockeyed cars
gust your coat with Saturday purpose,
and no-one slows to flash you safe
and you're cast away between intermittent metals
and the rain is a thousand won't-come-agains
soaking your hatless head.

And when you have checked the base for firmness,
your mother and father climb in by bits, any-old-how,
like you have taken the maps they never knew they were making
and torn them plumb down the grain, or across
so that they are paper scarps and valleys, blood-pricking teeth.
Her posh-do necklace. His matchbox with the magic badge
which a cadabra flick would seal in a hollow thruppence.
His birthday card to my darling terror when the paint was wet
on his pride. Her three-stick candelabrum, stained with
the unmeant wishes of all the pals, damp still
with the kerfuffle of a whip-round, last-minute, thirty years gone.

The photograph. She all hanging fox and clutch-bag,
he a romp of brass buttons to a ridge-top of braid,
both ogling a future prinked and fireworked
behind the photograher's head. The other one,
in the only home they caulked and papered
without the tallyman's pound. The pair of them
stilling the terrier, latest in a sequential pack
that circled and presented paws in the white space
of your growing memory. His hands at the flanks,
hers on the head and under the muzzle,
like they were getting purchase already
on spoils to be divided.

As you close the box, sleepwalk hands
round sideflaps f-g, endflaps h-i, tucking and levelling,
you stare through the motes of the afternoon window.
They ruck together, become a moment his liquored eye,
her lips amazed into blue-moon laughter. Then winnow free
and thicken about their business, killing colour, furring breath.
You check all for firmness. Ensure against bubbles of air.