Boxes

Courtyard is a haunted flea market
I dig my hands into boxes of garments
Frankenstein-ensembles sewn from you
ready to be resold

I pull the attire I decide to keep:
Your face dressed in a weathered smile
Your elegant body gestures paired with old sneakers
Pants pockets like sleepy airplane cabins
where our fingers meet in the dark
A beanie bagging your seasonal heart:
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
(I alchemize it into personal accessories painted with spittle
pure as rain)
A t-shirt exhaling bar smoke from its collar
Gloves damp with snow
Sweaters quilted with muscle

More boxes of you
(stacked like a Lego monster)
fill my basement
I’m attacked every time I go down there
encrusted into some cardboard Transformer
until I’m ready, once again, to shed you





About the Author:
James Mirarchi grew up in Queens, New York. In addition to his poetry collections, "Venison" and "Dervish," he has written and directed short films, which have played at festivals. His poems have appeared in Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Poydras Review, gobbet, Boyslut, Dead Snakes, Subliminal Interiors Magazine, and others.