She wakes next morning

to the hardness of a metal box

she’d hugged all night; squirms out

the same door,

sits at the desk of normals,

returns to the broken windows of home

with a wad of cash

she still claims as her own.


Night comes–

her walls crumble with his insistence.

He will come again to take his own,

no matter where she goes—a thousand things are his—

all hers.


Dawn scrambles up another earth hill,

people walk as if they had no will,

wind fills one last vessel,

people pop, become gods,

shear off the face of the deep.

We live our lives entranced with survival, as if all we can do is survive. Yet the entire time we are doing this, the whisper of the soul blows through us so that even our suffering serves to bring us to who we are: the gods who can take off the masks, who can fearlessly walk in the depths of soul.  One day we will all pop, for the wind will continue to fill us until we do.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014


2 thoughts on “Boxes

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