The box came off the shelf and the lid stayed—

The box came off the shelf and the lid stayed—

black lacquer, cracked at one corner, a bird

half-worn from the top. Something swayed

inside it. I held my breath. Never heard

what's in there. My grandmother's. The house

was cleared and nobody claimed it. I brought

it home in a bag. Behind the blouse

I never wear. Two years. I haven't thought—

or I have. I just reach past it each time

I open the closet. Today it fell.

I stood in the hallway, heard the chime

of whatever's loose. Put it back. I can't tell

if it's her I'm afraid of, or just what's there.

I closed the door. The bird. The crack. The air.