Old Trunk
by
Rose Gotsis

   Mildew collected in the trunk
   of soul,
   where memories, like mushrooms,
   need darkness to thrive.
   The smell of must sickens me.
      
   I lift the lid, warily.
      
   A brown-edged picture
   of a lost self
   rests at the bottom. I finger
   scraps of faded wallpaper,
   withered pressed flowers,
   excerpted from rooms
   of sickness and suffering.
   My chest tightens.
      
   I close the lid, quickly.
      
   I fasten the lock with Time,
   walk toward the window light,
   stretch my neck tall
   to view today's vibrant lands