I sat in a box made of cedar wood. It
was filled with old vignettes, letters, souvenirs, coins, foreign items. I was
so young, rummaging through strange stuff.
I lived in a box. I know, we don’t
need to hear it. Most lived/live in a box. Life is unique to each person, a
neat box, filled with goods, merchandise, steaks, mushrooms, arts, etc.
When I looked at her, I thought
about my box: emeralds of whelps; diamonds made of addictions; shelves of
bibles. I remembered I am in sin, looking for redemption, in a
universe boxed from ideals:
searching in her, some quality, some imperfection, to adore as welts heal, tobacco
is sparked, and grandchildren nudge, poke and act shyly.
I noticed she was human. She lived her
hunger: art, prose, poetry, novel, novella, life.
Maybe I could’ve spoken: “I am
broken. I am partway fixed. I like what I see. Would this interest something
different, unique—are we running?”
I dream of something. I notice to
live it is to be responsive to it—to have certain feelings, apropos to the
situation: flight with direction, stepping away from the box, spatial math.
To live without a box—that sounds
dangerous, one might insist a box be nearby.
My box is a worktable, a
flashlight, even kerosene with flame.
As it goes, she has gone her Nile, her
Vienna, spreading religion, fretting appetites.
I will cater to a box, partway
handicapping life, comfortable, disdained by a few.
