The first box smells sweeter than wet newspaper
drag it under the light 
earwigs crouch 
top layer of cardboard peels off
like skin
ridges soften underneath
old magazines eaten
by acidic snails
frame a self in pink
sealed sections
how to keep a man happy
the word ‘breathe’
looks wrong
I don’t remember how
to stare at a mirror in a dark room
trying not to pick pimples

The second box flies into my hands
I cannot see over its lightness
friends for every year, louder
lie over each other
brown the shade of 16
teeth soft, 
still 
felt
white of 4 worn into grey freckles of 9
but vivid eyebrows are permanent
small Dalmatians
corners missing
I remember the price of everything
close the lid
write “to go”

The third box opens
on a field of fleece
unpeel its membrane
for a frog, cool in my hand
as I crouch in the pool
fish flicking my calves
porcelain chips fall and click each other
at the bottom of the box
stroke presents from women 
I cannot name
but every time I cry 
I smell their lavender shoulders
I set aside my first yellow fence
two locked diaries to break into
handmade denim pencil case
red zip for keeping
I leave the snakeskin behind
he can’t find his tail
for eating

I feed the boxes left behind
into the fire 
of the rusted barrel 
only one translucent container
to fill
magazines melt from my eyes
the ash of my childhood
covers everything
I am grey

but shoots of green
peep through