My closet is a museum
of whom I was, where I began.
Boxes hold tight to secrets,
the already known, and dreams
I hoped would grow, but never
found the right garden.
Photographs of a precocious child
dressed in secrets peers up from
plastic, sepia pages with eyes
that speak of lessons learned
from the darkest fairytales.
Not all is dreary, yellow hair
captured in black and white
shows wind dancing with
every strand as I chased sunlight
across my front yard.
Bright orange pops from a photo
in splashes of lace, a bold thumb
in the eye of every other girl
who pasteled her prom with expected.
My rebellion shakes me with giggle
memories of how I stood out
in all my bold never fitting in.
Time and places, faces remembered,
faces I can’t recall hold space on shelves
as a mish mash history book of my journey
to finding my way through Red Riding Hood’s
wolf pages with all their teeth I was able to outrun.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
Comments
memories of how I stood out
in all my bold never fitting in."
Love this giggle in the midst of so much to remember in the museum, the history book, the boxes, the dreams and seeds. A beautiful poem.