Making Boxes

Making Boxes

The cardboard boxes in the basement
speak through crossed-out, markered nouns.

In black, all caps: LINEN CLOSET.
A blue X runs through it. The correction,

also in blue, reads FRAGILE! GLASS!
I make them boxes again, push their sides

in to make them stand. They collapse
and rise with little work. The cardboard bends,

lets us label it and pretend that rooms
themselves can be boxed up, brought with us.

Here is my kitchen, held in my arms,
and there is my old bedroom, and the office.

The cubes are disembodied spaces,
rooms piled up without a stairwell or hall.

We will the contents of our houses
not to break. Every box is so very fragile.