DEATH Poem: “Inheritance”, by Vee Clay

I didn’t get much.
A shoebox of old photographs,
two chipped teacups,
a voice in my head
that won’t shut up.

She left me the house
and something under the floorboards
that still knocks at night.

There’s a Bible in every room.
Each one opens to Psalms.
Each one weeps when it rains.

I try to live quiet.
Dust. Cook. Pretend.

But I see her in the corners—
hands on her hips,
lips twisted like she still thinks
I’m not doing it right.

It’s hard to grieve a woman
who never said sorry.
Harder still when her shadow
paces the hallway at 3:17,
muttering scripture backwards,
dragging something that thuds
every third step.
I sleep with the lights on.
She still turns them off.