Bea places each day of her humdrum life
into separate cardboard boxes, then stores them in her basement.
Inside each one are things
like flares from fireworks
or the taste of chocolate, a trace of gun powder
or the cackling of birds she neglected to learn the names of.
She packs in pigeons’ wings
& car-crashed butterflies, catalogues the mustaches of occasional ex-boyfriends,
& recreates the anxiety of every failed midterm of every family funeral
came sooner than expected.
Bea’s intrinsic melancholy trails her like a downcast shadow,
so she ships the boxes to a storage unit several states over,
but soon they’re exponential,
a disordered teetering structure
oozing her assorted recollections: They flow downhill,
wipe out whole towns, her mental accumulation requiring
entire forests to be cut down
for each of her 24-hour cycles.
Planes overwhelm the skies delivering her life’s details
to anyone mildly interested, but to placate her demand for space,
we set sail as refugees,
leave the U.S. at the mercy
of a mind idolizing itself as if its boxed product were divinity.
Bea metamorphoses into the largest import/export business,
sucking in raw materials
to memorialize her thoughts,
boxes precipitating our exodus into the sovereign creation
of a million island nations, all of us adrift on makeshift rafts
dotting the Atlantic & Pacific.
Bea’s resolutely unrepentant,
She’s our chosen representative, a starring role
we’d previously played in unison, this destruction around us
the untended consequence
summed up in the image
of a continent overrun by our procession of useless possessions.