Drunk one night she told me
of the box beneath her bed
meant to be unknown but to
herself and midnight fear
that when they come to close
her eyes and stop her clock,
in her room’s unmaking,
her secrets would be spilled.
Lid pulled back, she would become
more answers than deserved,
black mission fig that’s peeled apart
to show its fruit to all,
given away to another’s touch,
like the piece of self discovered
new in a lover’s mouth. But not
with you, a swarm of flies that eats
the flesh that has been scattered.
The dirt says nothing to the sky,
except a question asking questions–
and nothing to answer in between.
But what if all she held was plain
as dragonflies piggybacked,
or a hollow shape of plastic? If
there was nothing left to know,
and all her secrets go with her.

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Todd Heldt is a writer and librarian in Chicago.