I suppose there must be something in them,
those tiresome weights, slung heavy as a promise
over her back, to make them a treasure so inseparable.
Tender past kept hidden in her pocket or pantomime heart
nestled snugly in her sleeve. I wondered,
what proof-less secrets lied in its cavernous cradle,
what passioned morning, woeful night, lay lurking
under yellow suntan dresses and laced summer sandals.
Ghosts, probably. Cloaked in bed sheets, memories for eyes,
ghoulish howls softly whispering reminders of I-love-you’s.
I’ll never know, never nerve to hear the wails
that come from unzipping a lockbox
so full and brimming with yesterday.
I need help, she had said.
Defeated, hint of disappointment
muddled with sheer fatigue.
She knows the world doesn’t care.
Did no one see you lugging such a mammoth bag of anesthesia?
Numb today, number tomorrow. What low, that high.
They probably laughed,
the brutes, pointing fingers that have never held a dream.
What mountains did you move? What oceans did you part?
What narrow arms aimed to embrace did you neglect
to come so far? I glance behind her shoulder but saw no craters,
only footprints, and marveled.
