I am a lit­tle embar­rassed by this poem because recent­ly, I asked my sis­ter in Jamaica if she knew where our father’s ash­es were.

We chuck­led at how we were still fail­ing our beloved father forty years after his death.

There is a vein of the same refresh­ing macabre humor in Kath­leen McGookey​’s poem, ​“The Box” — the way a crock­pot reminds her both of her fail­ure as a daugh­ter and her affec­tion for her parents.

The Box
By Kath­leen McGookey
My parents’ ashes are still in a cardboard box on the metal shelves in my basement. It’s not all their ashes, just my share. They left instructions, but no deadline: when the dogwood blooms, on that trail near the pines. Sometimes I feel a slight pang—is keeping them like this undignified? Disrespectful? But then I forget them until I need the crockpot, and there it is, the little box, heavy for its size, labeled in my writing, next to my daughter’s baby clothes. I haven’t held it since we moved ten years ago. But I might. I could.

American Life in Poetry does not accept unsolicited manuscripts. It is made possible by The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2020 by Kathleen McGookey, “The Box” from Copper Nickle 31 & 2 (Fall 2020.) Poem reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2021 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Kwame Dawes, is George W. Holmes Professor of English and Glenna Luschei Editor of Prairie Schooner at the University of Nebraska.