There’s a shelf in the closet of my mind.
On that shelf are rows of small brown boxes.
Each box contains a death.
My son, Joseph John,
whose liver and kidney
may still be alive somewhere.
Uncles, cousins, parents,
grandmas and grandpas,
two brothers-in-law.
On another shelf—more boxes.
Deaths of strangers
who visited me in the ER
on the last day of their live.
Patients I cared for
for months in the burn unit
until their injuries
or infection overtook them.
Preemies I kept alive for a while
when they were born too soon.
On the top shelf
sits a single empty box—
waiting for me.
© 2026 Bruno Talerico
223/365
Desert Dweller 
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