by Emily Burns

The National Geographic
cover of the woman with green
eyes, or the storybook
wallpaper in the first floor bathroom,
the waxy crayons in the boiler room
and the rusted key collection
on the green-matted desk,
the telephone which still had
a twirling, winding cord
latched solidly into the wall,
and you, sitting in your chair,
cradling your Lapsang,
bones quiet as dust, you
who were once announced by fireworks
on the day of your birth.