At birth, I was given a box,

not one of 

wooden walls, 

golden silence, or 

silver linings,

but of skin—

mine and theirs,

knitted together by a frail 

string,

yet bound together eternally.

The box is smaller these days,

my mind compromising where

sight fails,

the yarn flayed and sliced open like

a fresh wound that never scabs,

never sewn up neatly into

the bone, never becomes part of 

you,

merely basks in the saltbath that is

your tears, unmasks the hands that now

stack upon your shoulders. 

I am not 

blind,

for I bear the weight,

the best view,

to uncharted scars.

I know but I don’t know where you are,

but I can feel 

you.

I search for you somewhere in the sky,

rainbow streaks like ribbons once

tangled in your wings,

thrusting you forward before

yanking you back,

red belly splayed—your own version

of a heart-sleeve.

I wish you still flew, 

Robin,

that way you could give some of your heart to

me.

But the wind had other plans when it carried you

away.

I take out my box, and there your feathers lay,

rising and falling with the currents,

a tiny pulse still 

beating.

Am I still breathing?

Sometimes I wonder how I came from you two.

The Robin,

oozing joy and wisdom

in your silvered eyes now

slivers in my mind.

I don’t have your 

heart,

but I feel its purpose booming

whispers into my bloodstream.

We bleed the same ink in different places, so 

we

beat the same stories.

Then there’s the Laurel,

my direct link to the 

living.

Its bark is woven from

gold twine that twists up like

curly fries—

brilliant, but winding a different

path.

I see the earth in your mossy eyes,

and I hold onto the soft vine to watch where 

you go,

your feet scorching your name to the ground;

I try to follow but I am burned too—

it’s not my 

name, 

after all.

You are the last vision held in my

box,

so I cling to your branch and hope

some of it breaks off

in me.

I don’t have your

soul,

but your snapping wood still

snaps to my song—

the one I wrote with

you.

Soon the box will crumple

to dust,

but the kind you scoop up and save.

Where, I don’t know.

But whoever inherits my box, just as I inherited it

from the 

bird 

and the 

tree,

will see me and

keep building bigger 

boxes.