termites

The dirt inside the box is too filthy to put on this
page. If I opened the box someone might get hurt.
I have carried the box for a long time, keeping it safely
shut. Occasionally, I might peek or show you a small corner.
But today you set the box down for me. I learned to say no, vicariously.

Someone else can carry the box. She can decide
to keep it if she likes. I think she has mistaken it for
the box the young boy on the beach was chanting about:
“a boy’s best friend is a dog, a girl’s best friend is jewelry.”
But the dog bites and this jewelry is made of bruises and of anger.
This box is mis-matched luggage filled with a story I don’t remember.

Luggage besotted with the broken hearts of childhood.
I suppose I should reach inside and take my own out before I
leave the box in her care. But perhaps I can make another heart
out of music and movement, out of earth and spit, out of desire and
longing. Perhaps, the box is empty and the weight I felt was only my
imagination. My imagination or my history or my mind spun into the fabric
of honeycomb holding me together while the termites are left to consume the box.