You have a box that you carry
everywhere you go.
You forget why,
but somehow you know
you'd better not
put it down.
You're not even sure
what's in it anymore.
You thought it was a toy,
for awhile—a doll.
Sleeping, in that cradle
of a box, maybe wrapped
in pink flannel.
But now you wonder.
No one asks to see
its pretty face, its curls.
It gets heavier, your arms
begin to ache.
It is something
wrapped up, all right.
But nothing you want to touch,
hold in your arms and rock.
Nothing to make you smile
with motherly pride.
It could be time
to put it down and just
walk away. Don't open
it first—you know
what happens
in that story.
About the Author: Wendy McVicker lives and writes in the beautiful green hills of Athens, Ohio. In her poetry, she seeks "to honor memory and the slow, deep process of knowing." Her poems have appeared in Appalachian Women's Journal, Confluence, Riverwind, and Whiskey Island, among others. She is a teaching poet with the Ohio Arts Council's Arts in Education program, and has been inciting poetry in schools, libraries, galleries, and community centers since 1987.
Copyright © 2005 by Wendy McVicker. The poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission.