Thursday, July 22, 2010

Remember Me the Box

I forgot the box the way

someone else would forget

the photo that dropped behind

the refrigerator, the sock behind

the dryer. I had the memory

of a migratory bird. I took pride

in what I remembered: names,

birthdays, the size of your inseam.

But I forgot you. I forgot you—

the slowest spring. Opening petal,

then petal. Every so often you would

take something out of the box

and reveal yourself to me:

The plastic frog with the black

eye, the photo of your father

without him in it.

I was good at love, I thought. I could

give you everything at once—

heavy snowfall, mud slide, closed

highway. But I want to love you

the way you love me: slow

and patient, as when we waited

all afternoon for the wood duck

to appear from the thicket of cattails.

I had forgotten the rewards of a slow

spring: the gratitude for summer,

the subtle iridescence of the wood

duck's breast, the sound of waxwings

in the birches, a box with the lid

cracked open. Teach me to love slow.

Remember me the box.

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