Suitcase Found

 

Little box of bones
raped and smothered
(if that was the order)
packed in a suitcase
like a ventriloquist doll
left by a desert highway
a thousand miles from home
a little mummy ripened
in sweltered undiscovery
years longer
than your life had been.
No one missed you.
Raised and used like veal.
Your mother no help.
She dead already in a forest
by the same lover
who stuffed your mouth
with a tea towel
like a washed-up glass.
‘He sat emotionless in the dock …’
Sorry little box
we’re not all like that.
You just have to catch us
on a good day.
For Khandalyce and Karlie Pearce-Stevenson.

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