Corked

April 18, 2008

by Ferris Jabr

You live in the old shoebox

underneath my bed,

swaddled in some scraps of cloth;

an abandoned egg.



And as I sit here,

sit here, now,

tracing the edge of a book,

my mind recreates the day

I saw you in the woods.



I was so young, so surprised

to find someone else there —

in that spot —

I’d thought it was mine.

And the sunlight played on your face,

the willow branches seemed to reach,

to want to feel their spring green leaves

against your peach-soft cheeks.



I ran, ran back to my room,

before you could see -

and not having the right words,

I let my paintbrush speak.



Sitting here,

sitting here, now,

swirling my Chardonnay,

my thoughts roll backwards —

I start to hear the waves.



The wind was angry,

on the day,

that I biked to the sea.

A green glass bottle in my basket,

and you rolled up so neat.



But every time I cast you out,

the tide would bring you back.

My arm just growing weaker,

bare feet sinking in wet sand.



So you remain

in your dark cage,

and I think I

might be there too.



I’m there too,

but there’s just

so much room,

so much room.