There's a catch in my breath like
the catch in your step from
the wound. "Where'd you get it?" I
asked you when I was five.

There's a hole in my chest like
the hole in your leg from
the wound. "It was a gift." I
didn't understand when you said it. I was five.

There's cold marble planted in the grass like
the countertops you bought from
Ikea. "Not really what it says on the box, is it?" you said. I
understand now. I was five,
but now at twenty I understand
the wound. And the box. And the gift.
The one I didn't appreciate nearly enough when I was five.

"Ain't it the way!" Your catchphrase, engraved. Delivered with a grin.
It would read so much better coming from your lips.
Those lips, on that contented smile, on that face,
in that box, now cold like that granite it's closed now within.