The Hoarder Cleans Out
It is impossible to label the boxes
after a life of miscellany.
I name them all after members of my family,
most of whom were named after each other.
Years blend and knead like terrible dough
that never rises. I can’t tell my great, great aunt
from my niece, who must be in her twenties
by now, I don’t remember.
Women called Emma are everywhere. There is a monopoly.
It makes me think of carousels and chipping my teeth
on Brighton rock, where one of my Emmas took me
one May half term when I was all short-shorts
and long socks. I shove many random objects in that box.
I cannot separate my colours, ever.
I cannot hold an encyclopaedia in one hand,
a tube map in the other, and tell you what weighs more,
which will take you farther. I’m not a Libra.
I am a Sagittarius. The zodiac does not get enough respect –
I don’t know why we can’t have science and Jesus both,
or aliens and ghosts and bus tickets. I cannot separate
my crop circle leaflets from my Church fundraiser letter.
I will put these in the box named after my father
who died some years ago.
My father had a telescope I was allowed to put my eye to
on special occasions. I cannot express enough how beautiful
the comets and the Harvest Moon, how bright yellow and lonely,
what a canary it is, there in the dark, dark mine of the sky.
My trouble is there is no box for memories, ideas, worries.
There is only the mind, and it will not take another name.
I sift my miscellany through my fingers like sand.
I love this starry explosion. My house is a young universe.
Jennifer Martin studied creative writing at Bath Spa University, where she also went on to do the poetry MA. Her poems have appeared in magazines such as Ambit, The Rialto and The Warwick Review.