I see a box,

And I wonder about its contents.

Now that I’m in one

I wonder which one it might be:

A music box,

with  music-box birds

(I’m a girl

who has spent a year hallucinating birds.

So this would make sense)

Each surface a mouth,

opens if asked

the right question

Each mouth has a taste,

and, itself, tastes…

But with all of the mouths and music

how could my heart still be

a box of snow.

So perhaps this is a jewel box

I’m in

Made of eyes sad as crocodiles

wherein I’m shaped by hands like flicking wet tongues

Shaped, re-shaped, then shaped again

and again

Until my hair has become thin

enough to feel the nighttime as it blows through

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Lauren Isabeau Doelling

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