mother sent me a small box,
dented cardboard, airmail—
palm-sized like we all once were.
inside it, a boxing glove keyring,
and your name on a chain bracelet—
too literal to be anyone’s heirloom.
once opened, the box
would not close again—so with my teeth
I tore a bit of tape.
on the anniversary I lit a candle,
half-burnt from my birthday. father,
I did not know what to say.
so I said nothing. I just wished
for its light to reach you—
isn’t that a prayer?
–
Luciana Francis is a Brazilian-born, UK-based poet. She has a B.A. (Hons) in Anthropology & Media from Goldsmiths University. Her work explores identity, sense of place, estrangement, and motherhood, and her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Popshot Magazine, Kissing Dynamite, Visual Verse, and Motherscope, amongst others.