poem: melissa lacross
Box
I have come far now but just a few steps. screws
drilled tight, blades cut board and bone, a structure
on all 4 sides I don’t recognize from photos back
when we played games, had parties with cake and
cocktails. Held hands. before the long break in
time, the leaky drip, drip, drip — new water or
recycled on repeat? I drink deep and peer at my
reflection on the dingy, concrete floor — not truly
dingy or concrete but tile viewed so often I can
scarcely recall the pattern before my own eyes. It
will fall, each inch of wood we thought holding us,
and when we all come out, will anyone see a
familiar trace in the low, diminished throng?
about the author: melissa lacross
Melissa LaCross writes to make sense of the world. She spends most of her time with her three sons and husband in Charlotte, NC. She loves a well-prepared meal, real conversation, and can often be found hiding in a corner with the other introverts. You can find more of her work on Instagram.
