drawing poem

My parent’s dark drawer

held me as a newborn.

It came to contain things

like bits of paper

reminding notes, mismatched socks

and well-loved earrings

whose mates had gone missing.

Opening it now, it’s empty;

those things have been let go.

Dancing dust-bunnies still get in

and sparkling sneezing ensues.

This body contains

a beating heart that pumps and

pushes only blood in circles.