carmine steppe
it’s exhausting
to look for things
in our house where
there are too many boxes
that aren’t even sealed shut—
they’re conveniently compartmentalized
into corners as if it was systematic to bury
all the clutter we’ve accumulated into the back
of our house, but the masking tape labels are peeling
off and all the dust & the dirt & the dark bugs are permeating
into the gaps & piles & pages of pictures that have bled through
ragged edges of plastic, all the way to the brim, until the containers
swell as the belongings strain through the pliant plastic lids, begging
to be found—this was the agony of keeping too many things—all
of this baggage was more than our palms could hold but put it in
a box and you wouldn’t have to hold it anymore—just leave it in
the dark, and you wouldn’t have to see it anymore—just put any
thing, anywhere, as long it could suffocate, as long as it was
high enough on a shelf that i couldn’t reach it,
and if it were to fall it would shatter
as if handling things meant
they had to hurt.
i forgot what i was looking for
so i settle down into the midst
of everything to pick up
a broken toy and say
this was mine.
lavish onyx