packrat

from memories to broken toys —
i keep everything — hoping to recycle
them into a poem. or story. or an
ashtray for things that lack the will
to protest against flames

i still carry a piece of my favorite
glass cup in my pocket, and a thorn
from the sweetest rose i ever got,
is under my pillow. i try to save
a little bit of all the things i love
‘cos time takes without warning
and a packrat hates such surprises

so, when you find that tiny note
written in smearing blue ink in my diary,
keep it safe – it’s an echo i saved from
the lips of the man who called me
a goddess before a woodcarver
chiseled a deity in my likeness
and a priest built a shrine in my name