The
white rose tile
inlaid
on top of my childhood
jewelry box has the dust layers
to
prove its true age.
The
box itself is broken and faded,
With
rusty hinges and dust proving its true age
That
it was preparing a girl
with
golden hair that curled at the ends
for dress up parties and fancy kitchen outings
Dilapidated
today,
but
filled of memories and broken rings
And
mother’s borrowed pendants,
plastic
beads,
And
the best half of broken friendship necklaces
And
cherished handmade bracelets,
Trinkets
from trips I had forgotten,
One
stud of my first earrings,
My
name bracelet,
it
doesn’t fit anymore.
And
old mood rings that never changed
from fierce to flirty to festive, as
advertised
Mine
always was a cool deep blue, calm.
Now
it’s black
preserved
in my broken box.
