In a Poetry Archive, Examining Box No. ——, Belonging To —————

What is to be done about secrets but keep them to ourselves, forever
and ever, amen? Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets. Perhaps
we were all meant to fade, and these boxes are an abomination. Perhaps
these boxes are our only chance for an afterlife. Perhaps this is heaven.
Who decides which body is worth this buff embalming? For most of us,
those scratches we shaped across the page will quickly heal.
These boxes smell of prying, of patient gathering, of too-close scrutiny,
of insurance policies against amnesia. Of oubliettes. Each yellowed sheaf
has been combed and consecrated. Handled with gloves and laid
to manila rest. Oh, for the chance to have your past reordered,
relished, reshaped. I do not know if they smell like —— ———,
for I never met them, and would not have smelled them if I did.
Surprising how old and right it looks to see a typewritten manuscript—
faded text where the ribbon has been struck too many times, rips
in the corners, mothy staple holes, rubbed out pencil, bloody welts
of corrective red. Yellow felt tip pen has left a circle of dissolving sun,
and every so often, the pages wear the ley line of an opened fold.
There are jokes in here that have not stood the test of time.
The box is seagull grey. The contents are tied inside with thick,
calico string. I’m thinking that this room is too much like a dungeon.
Claustrophobic, exactly the sort of place where you might imagine
everything in the end, submits to death. I’m bored with these sheaves
of invoices—the way they remind me that everything to do with poetry
has a price. I am glad when you text, but your message is crisp and cold.
You are busy today. Much too busy for this.
As I close the box, I slip a weary breath beneath the lid. This is the closest
I shall come to such eternity. I imagine you wrote that message wearing
your most professional smile. At least break my heart on paper,
you bloody blasted b—. At least use sympathetic ink.

Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets – Paul Tournier