Cleaning the Attic

Around two or three silverfishes dart

among the pulverized lizard eggshells

at the bottom of the box. Gliding into corners,

hiding from view. I pull my hand away,

eventually learning the shock

might be much more real to them

than it is for me: a lesson in consolation.

Here I keep what I hold on to until

memory thins into anomalous relics:

tattered journals, lined notebook

with two-chapter story in puerile longhand cursive

of a “monstrous but delicate swan” (a fourth grader’s

imagination powered by high-fructose grape juice),

limbless G.I. Joes, foxing sci-fi paperbacks, tin globe

clanking with coins of countries where my mother

would love to visit if she were younger,

phone bills and deposit slips from early 2010’s,

diagram of cardiovascular system with its heart

fading from being kept too long in the dark—

I have kept and accommodated too much,

too, like this heart. In the dark. I believe

this is the noble service of recollection,

as how postmen still faithfully slip letters

into mailboxes, one after the next—

and here I end up with what would mostly find

their way to the dispose pile. In another corner

of this choked space a column of vinyl,

a bag of reunion shirts, a row of encyclopedia,

a pair of old wedges, a bundle of Christmas balls

and a matryoshkan discovery: In a chocolate box

within a shoe box, a sheaf of poems for the future

self, abundant with rhymes that sing like fork tine

on crystal. Today I learn the divisions of my desires,

as a sharp shaft of light scatters in from the east

window, frenzied motes eager for the day’s baptism:

I imagine there is a corridor that leads to everything

I cherished as a child, another as an adult,

and one squat room enough to fit those

that come to fruition, and another where I could reach

anything anytime at arm’s length. Lastly, a hall

where contradictions meet their compromises (obviously

just as important as the toilet and the kitchen sink).

Years later, in a country continents away from home,

I am warned that what we may lose

might never be found again. I was told that

on the same day I was reminded to be kinder.

So from the attic, I bring down several boxes

of knickknacks to be banished from the house.

Straining under the weight, my arms shake,

careful not to drop anything out of my embrace.