Your cardboard box is an Ark

 

 

You take one of each: one book. One frame.

One door. One shoe.

You wrap them up safely: the cups. The hearts.

Everything goes down in newspaper scraps

like yesterday’s tomorrow.

 

You make every box a guardian of secrets.

A treasure unburied. A dream clouded in dust,

then unveiled.

All the old dedications, crinkled photographs,

they speak of love, love, love, then ask:

Why are you leaving? Did you not like it here?

 

When Noah told them, come, to my Ark,

don’t you think they went asking?

 

It was a new shore and new life

and they did not want to leave home.

 

If you are restless, think of the flood. Think of

the species: one lout. One pen. One light. One key.

You toss them into the boat so your

old life won’t drown. All new shores are hopes,

but past shores are hands.

 

A cardboard fleet is setting out.

Their sails no bigger than curtains. Noah commands

a sea of memories to divide, make way – or was that Moses? –

and all things move through,

possibly breaking, but most likely not.

 

Your box is an Ark. You say: Come, come.

I’m sorry we have to go, but it’s time.