Just Maybe
Commonsense
insists it's so:
we are born,
we live,
we die.
Making space for another.
Full stop.
But somewhere,
just maybe,
there might
be a box. (Carved
of charred bone?
Lined with the brindled
fur of a mouse?)
And something more
dwells in the box.
Maybe, at last when I die,
I'll know the weight
of the box on my chest.
(Maybe the box was there all along,
but invisible, weightless.)
And maybe the lid
will lift with ease—
and then my two hands
will dart from my wrists,
startled, like sparrows—
my heart will leap like a lover
into Your embrace.
Karlene Keskinen lives and works in Santa Barbara, California. A novelist by trade, she writes noir mysteries as Karen Keskinen. Keskinen makes a poem when, as WC Williams puts it, there is “no other fit medium.”
Amethyst Review 