In my green turtle treasure box
I used to keep souvenirs.
A tiny plastic frog that hops
-Favor from a birthday party;
A cigar wrapper from a cigar
I purchased and smoked myself
At a snobbish humidor in
Santa Fe New Mexico;
The wiry cap from a bottle
Of cheap champagne
Someone I once loved had
Twisted into a miniature
Chair from Thumbelina's tearoom;
One glossy apache tear-
That glassy black stone
Sold to me from the basket
Of a dark little beauty wearing
A sailor hat over black curls;
A Land-O-Lakes butter box,
Folded and cut to reveal
Squaw breasts without nipples
Hiding behind her wares. Funny
How remembering my mementos-
Those silly totems of time-
Awakens vivid connection
To a long-lost life.

And now my box sits empty
On a shelf holding up books,
Now and then refilled
With army men or pretzels.
I couldnt venture guessing
How my treasures were dispersed -
Carried off at playtime
Or dropped under furniture.
No one knew their meaning
But I, who valued them.
No heart would lay claim on
Such trivial artifacts,
Which my eyes fondled
Again and again in those days;
Memorizing what each
Represented and how
Their tiny, subtle details
Stirred my mind to dance,
Or mourn, or pledge myself.
They were only bobbles -
Mere rubbish and transient -
But such priceless refuse,
Once lost is lost.
Can't be replaced or redone,
Only remembered by a heart
Familiar with their source.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006