I have a tiny box.

It never leaves my side,
in the dark, in the day, full moon, crescent, eclipse,
when the sun blinds my eyes,
it is my light in the dark, my little sunshine.

Pressed close to my heart,
cradled in my palms, an offering,
I slot it into the tiny pockets by my hips.
It sometimes leaves a mark on my skin:
A box shape, a temporary coffin.

It is a copy paste microverse
I can disappear into whenever, wherever.
I cup my thumbs around its cheeks,
stare into its beautiful face cracked by age, and see myself looking up from its depths.

© Eva Irvine