Inside the black bins in the attic
old dusty things, some sentimental objects
next to cold Dutch ovens, in need of care
rust eating slow, steady
there are letters inside torn envelopes
my name scrawled
looped
scratched with pens
tucked into the flap of bi-pocket folders
my own drawl written in a 5 star
yellowing at the tips
I flipped through lofty books
found
pressed flowers inside
photographs of people that mattered
once
more than once
I collected them all
passing
A scuba suit dropped to the bottom
where light starved fish gleamed
in no time
I couldn’t throw away and I couldn’t keep
pieces that make up these heavy bins
I carry our past skins
Our past carries on
flaky dead dandruff
as I blow fiberglass into the void
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 