Iris Lee
Dead Bodies
In the stately home’s front hall, beside the coat closet, rests the packing case filled with aunts and uncles, teachers and neighbors, all jumbled together like flung dolls with batting leaking out of limbs and pilled garments dangling rusty buttons. What a mess.
Actually, there is no front hall, no coat closet in my apartment; that’s a literary conceit which comes from reading too many British mysteries. But the packing case is there all the same. It’s tumbled down the non-existent stairs from my mental attic and all the aunts and uncles et al have gotten out and been hastily stuffed back in since the homeowner is selling up and moving on with her life.
Back in goes Aunt Jeanne. Back in goes Uncle Al. Mrs. Berman, third grade teacher. Madeline, downstairs neighbor. I’ve got the packing tape and scissors. I’m wrestling everybody back in. Quick! Now lean on the lid, cut the tape, press it on. Everybody o.k. in there?
around our table
after a long day at the beach
fried chicken and coleslaw
Uncle Al pulls out his bible
my father leaves the room
About the Author
Iris Lee (the pen name of Iris Lee Stoler) is a Brooklyn native whose window overlooks the Brooklyn Bridge. She’s published a collection of poems, Urban Bird Life (NYQ Books), and has had work in Epiphany, Marsh Hawk Review, and Passager, among others. Iris spent her work life in public service and now spends it “in the service of words.”
Iris always brings her A game. Love the last 2 lines.
Such a creative peice, straddling the real and imagined and rich in metaphore. The last 2 lines of the tanka are brilliant, and made me think about the way I carry so much of my history and family with me every day.