BY martin jee
All of my childhood lies inside a box.
Under my bed
with the nightmares and the dust.
The carved animals come
to life among the inlay
It’s there they cannot touch me
while I wonder
who has already left,
like Cousin Min-
we heard of her last
during the reunion, an afterthought.
She is gone now.
All night she
whispers from the crack in the box.
And sometimes it spills like the sea
with the same shade of blue grey
and yet here we are still smiling -
under the lamplight.
Somehow we found time
Yellow conquers all.
The images blur and disappear
as my box is stored away.