The Trunk

There is a trunk
I have not seen it
myself
(yet)
but she and I will
trace its journey
from Wisconsin
1914
wartime
decades before meth
scourged
the small towns
of the midwest
to downtown Phoenix
where addicts
claim certain street corners
and artists rise
where women hold hands
on their way to Circle K
for smokes
where native still means
something
where illegals
birth babies into loving
hands
(sometimes)

The owner of the shop
where the trunk
landed
sleeps
in the back room
gave up her home
for her dream
One day
not long ago
a midwife
wandered in to look
around
spotted it right away
brown on the outside
but no ordinary trunk
on the inside
turquoise drawers
more like a treasure
chest
a trove of stories
She had to have it
but
didn’t have
the cash

A week or two later
she came back
someone had bought
the trunk
and returned it
that very day
it didn’t work
in their space
it knew
it belonged to her
and before the owner
could finish her sentence
the woman from Indiana
from India
from San Diego
from the dust of stars
from the darkest recesses
and the brightest suns
who had worked
for every dollar
slapped her money
down

The two women wrestled
the trunk
into the backseat
of her uninsured car
and she drove it home
claimed it
as her own
zig-zagged its metal
corners
into the corner
of her bedroom
where it fit
perfectly
the one material possession
she will carry
cross country
(someday)
to the woods
of Western Massachusetts
and back again
to the ocean
where she and I will
breathe salt air
until the very last
of our days
together

4 thoughts on “The Trunk

  1. gailnhb says:

    Lucky trunk. Found by its rightful and soulful owner.
    Returned to its proper place.
    And soon to head out on new adventures.
    Oh, the stories that trunk will hold, safe and sound.
    Until the very last days of your lives together.

    Beautiful, Jena, as always.

    Like

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