Leavings Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Who will look at these mementos
assembled by era, by heartache
by chance where they have fallen
into a drawer where I store his wedding ring
under a birthday card he made by hand
beside a creased deck of cards missing a queen
or a king
or a joker

Who will rummage here in ten years or twenty
dump out this box labeled "personal"
to sift through hundreds of tiny, handwritten notes
ideas I had that were perfect little imperfections
never to be read again
like aborted entertainments never given a stage

Who will read this notebook I kept in college
with its messy scribbles from advanced psychology
business math, marketing, African literature
that I, myself, will never read, ever
because it has that one poem in it that I cannot face again

Who will open this windmill jewelry box
from my teen years, full of unlit firecrackers
Girl Scout badges, band camp nametags
photos of friends with their arms around each other
at the lake, at school, in Halloween costumes
at homecoming dances, at all of the many places
that I felt like a shadow.
Who will care

Who will read this poem
written at this moment
alone on my bed thinking of some of the things I've seen
people I have loved.
Who will read about the tokens I've brought home in pockets
decades ago
or last month
mingling together in a mess of emotional relics
in the junk drawer at the bottom of my heart