Old Trunk
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
Published in The Longfellow Journal, Volume VIII
© Rose Gotsis
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied or used in any way without written permission from the author.

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