Cardboard boxes cradled in eaves, the past
of me balancing haphazard across two joists;
If I stepped onto the rolled-out sea of insulation,
we would plunge deep through the ceiling. I find
a crumpled bird costume I wore – wings flapping –
a life or two ago; doodled-on school books,
my childhood in wax crayon scribble, felt tip
bleeding outside the lines. Photos. Faces

I no longer recognise; I am one of them.
The bin bags I hold pull the threat of suffocation
close. I mind my step, pack myself neatly back
into dogeared boxes, obey the instruction –
‘this way up’ – and leave the past
buried deep in the heavens of the house.

Jo Robson lives in East Yorkshire, England, and writes short fiction and poetry. She is currently working towards a BA in Creative Writing with the Open College of the Arts.

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