Packed In Boxes
We took our home, piece by piece—
the lava lamp without a bulb; the picture
his mother bought (of us, facing away
from the camera but towards a river,
smiling at swans and holding hands);
the green game boxes, piles of them—
and placed it in those cardboard boxes.
Although originally meant for medical equipment,
masks and gloves and surgical dressings,
his mother, the nurse, found them for us
and let us fill them with remnants of home
to take to the new building. The new house,
with sandy window frames and the box room.
Our room. But not at first, not until
we slit open the cardboard with pocket knives,
revealing their comforting, familiar insides:
t-shirts and hoodies we'd both worn; CDs
and DVDs we'd fallen asleep to, too many times
to count; pink and blue candles, only half-full.
Our life, in objects. Our home, packed in boxes.
We use cookies to analyze website traffic and optimize your website experience. By accepting our use of cookies, your data will be aggregated with all other user data.