Childhood yellows
in boxes in basements—
nostalgia skins fashioned
from newspaper, stationery,
and fabric soaked in two
decades of humidity.

Caskets are so pretty!

Childhood settles and sticks
to itself in corrugated sarcophagi—
old baby books, comic books,
and felt school banners
creased and pressed
into crunched corners.

Corpses are irresistible!

Forget-me-not is a name, but
also a prayer between
heartbeats, as fingers
pry open taped and tied
relics parents archived. I
pull back the warped flaps.

Ink is memory’s dried blood.

My spirit eyes see Moroni
standing over Joseph
as he lifts the Liahona
out of an old stone box.

Moroni sighs.
He giggles, “My!
I’d forgotten all
about that damn thing.”
The angel cries.

Joseph frowns and furrows
his brow: more stuff to carry.  

Poet’s Notes:

For a different poem on a similar theme, try When Gold Plates were Stayin’ Alive.

This post’s featured image comes from Pixabay.