If boxes are
secrets
and secrets are graves
Nonnie’s desk is an old, fine cemetery
held within the body of a noble horse:
tapered legs that carry great weight,
soft smell of dust and rubber.
Before the desk was mine
I only touched it when I helped her.
Now I wake to it, golden in the grey,
eleven drawers, four cabinets
two of which are sloped like backs
of perfect sleeping women.
and secrets are graves
Nonnie’s desk is an old, fine cemetery
held within the body of a noble horse:
tapered legs that carry great weight,
soft smell of dust and rubber.
Before the desk was mine
I only touched it when I helped her.
Now I wake to it, golden in the grey,
eleven drawers, four cabinets
two of which are sloped like backs
of perfect sleeping women.
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