Amanda

Children’s laughter,

floating from the throats of three princesses

high atop their cardboard castle tower,

skips across the lazy summer air.

When their brothers come home

the castle will transform:

time machine magic

of a child’s imagination.

But I know the sadness of cardboard boxes.

My castles, stacked high against walls

and towering in the center of rooms,

were a prison I twisted

to escape.

Everyday, I came home from school,

watched hands,

older and wiser than mine,

seducing

another room’s memories

into gaping disappearance.

On that dreaded day,

the full-bellied thieves

were fed to the ravenous truck

and regurgitated

between empty walls and empty air.

Unpacking filled the space.

Nothing satisfied the hollowness,

grasping memories

that slip away like water

in a cracked glass,

broken in transit.