Our daughter collects boxes.
Boxes with purple lids that pop off
or snap open on old brass hinges.
Boxes with black velvet on the sides
and pale blonde ribbons around the top.
Boxes with soft cotton inside
and holes pierced through the lids.
Boxes in pieces,
scattered like cardboard confetti
and poking through the carpet into my toes.
She isn’t here today,
so I’m searching her room for a very specific box.
I’m on my hands and knees
pulling them out from the darkness under her bed.
I’m laying them out on the floor
where I can slip in a single toe,
just to see if I fit.
I need a box I can get inside of.
Something as easy to slip into as the waves at the ocean.
I have asked you to carry me,
to pick me up, hold me close,
but you might…
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