two silver boxes

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my salad days,
another for Mama’s succulent mango pie
Yet none were too spacious for my minority,
Odd boxes were crafted out of apathy.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my delicate flowers,
another for the paper dolls
Trapping them as if my soul did not have inner voice;
locking them in as if the demon did not pierce my insides.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for a pearl,
another for my dazzling unicorn
A sharp knife was not worthy to be locked up,
For it was the rage I entailed when my temple got broken.

I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my white lilies,
another for a monthly alien
Perhaps this poor heart was never on the brink of acceptance,
I have abandoned my better angels before they soared away.
They were a home, a chain to my pith and wrecked flowers
What was more obscene than a very young but damaged lily?
Grievous affairs were the culprits,
I reckoned,
Not that I did not whimper dispatching my sprouting fruit.
I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my stained heart,
another for a terrible mind
Pangs of conscience rotted through time—
coveting to redeem the angels back and sense home now.
Fascination of my own sin ran down my pale skin,
How did a pair of tiny arms and ceased heartbeat behoove an actual home?
My fragile womb was drained and it thumped me to ashes,
How did I feel so heavy and burdened out of emptiness?

I did not foresee to learn building a poignant little box—
one for a forsaken gift of life
Except that it was quite narrow and I pigmented it silver—
chained with remorse and sorrow once it was sent underneath.
Hence I foresaw to acquire building another silver box—
one for my repentant lily
Except that this was the last—
The last box I crafted to join her little heart underneath.

the senior pug

With my fingers caressing the tiny fabric,
I noticed Porkchop’s eyes–
did they really look gloomy
or was it merely the sudden spots I peeked
from gazing at the bright
green and red sweater knit?
Both of my lips were still gripping
the needle, tireless about letting
him wear my twelfth Christmas present. But
the grip and gift loosened when
the heat from the chimney turned useless.
Perhaps, he was just getting cold or old.

As my toes and knees pressed
down the numbing flooring,
I found my arms giving Porkchop’s face
a soft nudge. He offered a look that he
had never shown before—it was muted and
and feeble like some of the snowflakes
that could melt at sunrise. I wanted to
tell anyone that my pug’s body was trembling
like a bell in the peak hour, but all I thought was
lending him the sweater I had been sewing—

hoping that the little cloth with a fine
pine tree sewed on it could enliven
the essence of that day, and
the fire from the chimney,
to reveal Porkchop’s creased coat and
weird smell of breath—assuming at first
that it was because of the pizza and red wine.
But nothing was right, so I just stood there,
sketching a new figure in my mind to
embroider on his next holiday’s sweater.

Then I was puzzled and hated
myself for thinking that there’s another
Christmas for Porkchop and I. Yet I
stood still, then sat and contemplated, clearly
realizing that he was different
that day—strange and peculiar.
For twelve years, that holiday was unusual,
he was indeed getting
cold and old.