All That Is Left

It fit in a box,
all that was left.

Combustive currents caught cold
in cardboard four by four;
culmination gifted in plain brown wrapper.

The dead came into the night kitchen,
sat it on the checkered table with a note
that read "fuck you" in cha cha cherry red,
color of lips and blood and battle and

steel wills attract, iron heads repel;
forgotten purpose polarized,
fried in the collision of charged particles,
finally elevated above the beast and now

it sits contained; corrugated sides suck in,
push out; the steady breath of something huge,
eternal pulse which has not died and still so small

it fits in a box,
all that is left.