Sarah Clayville
A Forced Eviction
Suddenly our space is no longer ours,
and I’m cleaning out the locker we once shared
because the year is over, and we are over, and
it’s too embarrassing to let the janitors
throw away the mementos of our relationship.
A chemistry book looks innocent enough except
between the pages we pressed my corsage petals and
a speeding ticket you got racing to my house when I
didn’t know where we stood or if I should be standing
by myself. And a sketch of my eyeball and your eyeball.
We kept a closet of our dates stuffed in the bottom,
layered the way we let each other pick the places and
the times we were together. First your wrestling sweatshirt
that I wore, then my scarf that you tucked inside your pocket,
and socks that could be anyone’s.
The locker’s empty and the hallway crowds have vanished.
When I turn around I expect to see you sitting by the
cardboard box, labeling his and hers with the black sharpie
you always carry just in case there’s a space you can make
better with your drawings the way we made each other better.
I’d like to say the box is what’s heavy, but I lift it easily
and instead struggle with the memories and the questions.
I’m not sure exactly why I said goodbye or asked you to
stop doodling my name in strange little corners of the world.
I just know that I had to take it back and write it on my own.