Care Package

Care package—home in a box.
I couldn't wait till I got home.

Parcel waiting. Box number nine.
Gogo wrote my name along the side.
Twenty kilos, tape on tape;
I open it before I leave the place.
Matemba folded in newspaper,
Peanut butter, label gone.
Two bottles of Mazoe tucked in tight—
They packed the orange like a crown.

You can't post a mother's Sunday,
Can't fold rain into a square.
But I lift the lid, and for a second,
I'm the child who's waiting there.

Care package, home in a box.
Open it slow; let the whole world stop.
Grown man, car park, coming undone—
Care package, somebody's son.

A cloth for my wife, her favorite colors,
Sweets I thought they'd all forget.
Four lined pages: who got married,
How the mango stood the wind.
At the bottom, wrapped inside a sock,
One metal key from Dad's mbira.
He used to tune it with his head bent low;
I hold it like he might still hear me.

Care package, home in a box.
Open it slow; let the whole world stop.
Grown man, car park, coming undone—
Care package, somebody's son.

The jar stays open on my knee.
I breathe it in before I speak.
Mama asks, "Did it all arrive?"
"Everything," is all I say.

Care package, home in a box.
Dad's mbira key in a worn-out sock.
Grown man, car park, still your son—
Care package, look what love has done.

The box is empty.
I keep it anyway.
(Everything arrived.)