This poem came from reading Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club. Any memories are suspect, of course, but the more you talk with people about their childhood, the more you realize you don’t remember near as much as you always thought you did. That no one does, in fact.
What kind of memories would be in this box?
Image from Wikimedia by Sergeev Pavel
Sold As Is
I don’t know myself—
past wrapped in dark paper
corners scuffed and dented
edges feathered with tiny rips
shoved into a dusty corner
I don’t take it out
heft its weight
slide a fingernail under an edge
testing my resolve—
afraid of seeing my reflection
distorted
daring me to open the past
Perhaps the memories are happy there
snickering
important in their absence—
brought to light
they might be diminished
revealed as shabby
ill-fitting
smudged
or maybe awful
self-important
portentous
I don’t know, myself
This is beautiful, Caitlin. Thought-provoking, and very true, as well. I love how the comma in the last line changes the meaning so completely from that of the first line, too. Well done, my friend!!
Some poems do need punctuation, after all. 🙂
Hahaha. Yeah, sometimes it’s needed to make your meaning clear. (I think that’s why we invented punctuation to start with.) Of course, I use it in my own poetry all the time. For me, it works. But I also enjoy a freer form, such as you use. Bet you didn’t think I’d see that comma, did you? 🙂
Sometimes you need it, sometimes you don’t. I do love the example you always see:
Let’s eat grandma.
Let’s eat, grandma.
Grammar saves lives!
😀 😀 D: