I search my head's attic
for anger against you.
It is not there,
only dust and ashes
on memory's boxes

The boxes are labeled
Guilt, Degradation, Humiliation
but not Anger

I will not open them again.
I will not!
but their cardboard whispers
are tempting.

The trip up the stairs
sits heavy on my chest, leaves me breathless.
My leather gloves are hot
on my hands.

I will not allow allow the boxes to dirty me.
I will not!
but dust motes are everywhere
even in the sunshaft
of the small window.

The trip up the stairs
makes my knees weak,
my legs shake,
my feet drag, snagging on the stair treads.

I will not be bowed by cardboard's weight.
I will not!
but I keep climbing the stairs.
I cannot find a box labeled Love either.

© Diana L. Lambson   September 2003