Tara Rogan

Little Boxes

It was still cold outside, the air

still bit me when I started to bring over


trinkets to your home, layered little

boxes that were just parts of me-


some clothes, a proper skillet, a

silver necklace from my grandmother.


You’d come home and then you’d smile.

“I love how you fill this space,” you’d say.


You moved your things to make room

for mine: my records, my winter sweaters.


There was never a want for space or

a demand for room; the walls knew our warmth


like a kiss on the forehead, they knew the tone

of your laugh when you were seconds from sleep.


New latitudes will learn the way our legs

and fingers tangle before we rise, and nights


when we’ll swallow sangria and marvel at it all:

at the sound of what our life looks like.


[BIO]: Tara is a writer in Minneapolis and is currently at work on her first novel.


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