Here is the box; it’s made of some strange wood
old people like. It’s sitting in the corner
—or rather, if you know to look it’s there.
Or if, while blithely passing through, you should
trip on the squat, unlovely case and spring
the lock, and find thrown up a wall of dark
—or, rather, four walls under a low ceiling,
each of the windows lightless, narrow, barred
you’ll know about it too. You have a feeling
you’re not alone inside your narrow cell
but rather there’s a child nearby who lies
completely mute to nurse his broken back
and missing nails. And there’s a baby girl
(this room, you know, is your own bleeding heart,
its open wound—where headlines lodge like knives)
who has torn the paper from the walls to eat
and cuddles the scraps for comfort as she dies.