LACUNA

Moving house to house vanquishes a part of the self each time.

In one of the garage's hundreds of boxes languishes

my musical ambition; in another, the writing one.

They are full to bursting, and I don't know which ones they are.

A dozen hold cornucopias of clothes, just not the ones overly-worn

and adored; not the ratty old baby blankies and overthumbed

sleepers, or that (finally!) perfect pair of jeans.

Another holds dishes, just not the cherished, most ergonomic mug.

A few hold knick knacks, most of which have been swallowed

like socks in a famished dryer.

Shoes stink up another, just not the dainty sandals slanting

parallel to one's perfect toes.

The Bible (Collected Stories of Ray Bradbury) is either in heaven or hell.

The tent is hopelessly on the lam; there goes bonding with nature.

Gone, the twelve baby aspens planted just last year

Georgia's giant purple hydrangeas bursting forth in deep south air,

the brother-in-law one always meant to get to know,

the sister you were going to live forever near, running a shelter for strays

and, of course, the world's best dog ever, buried beyond an alpine window.

In another box, legs that could dance all night, arms hale enough

to heave ten babies overhead.

One tied in red ribbon is always shuttled yet never reappears:  love letters.

Another holds the brains you used to exercise without a sweat.

And some dark corner hoards the most evasive tiny casket,

both light and laden as its hushed and hidden heart.

Copyright 2008 Julianza Shavin