Boxes

Quiet conversations alone are nurtured
in this, the smallest of rooms;
a six-sided cell
sealed tight by the clamouring voices of
those of the outside world,
aliens to her own World.

Ten years of outgrowing and
subsuming
the box

when the realisation eventually
hits,
like a sledgehammer
to a house of discolouring glass,

that she has always held the room
in the palm of her ever strengthening hand.

And that just
a breath,
a word
—whatever, but of her own—
could disintegrate
this enclosure
to dust.

A death
leading to a
birth.

The box, the room—
a womb to escape.

Poem XXXV
M.M. — 26-May-2013