Outside The Box

My box got broken long ago
so I can’t help but think
outside it - it has no in.

All our boxes – the rickety crib,
the jewellery box meant for me,
the antique coal scuttle, the shapes
Dad’s arms and legs made
as he danced – all got destroyed.

Crushed because they represented
finer things denied to him,
smashed because they shoved his face
close up against the looking glasses
of my eyes, he laughed before
they squirted him with failing cream.

How loud he shouted, how he cursed
as he slapped his reflection
from my clasped face.
Found me so wanting
he was never seen again.

Yet he did me a favour
took contagious cruelty away,
forced Mum and me to learn
to thrive in this boxless world.
In a way he set me free
to run inquest after inquest
now he’s dead to me.