At the age of five

Mary has built herself a retreat

A box made out of her father’s rusty carving knife

(which was quickly confiscated)

And a soggy line up of cardboard

She found while digging through the trash

At the age of six

She is told to speak up and to not be afraid

Of making mistakes

Instead she gives her box a tidy

Talks to her tiny paper dolls

And wonders if anyone would notice

If she was gone

At the age of eight

She has given up on talking

Running, playing, laughing

Smiled only once on photo day

(the picture turned out horrible

she threw it in the trash)

She goes to art class but sits there

Only to envy her teacher’s extensive collection

Of cardboard boxes and she wonders if he would notice

If she took one home for herself

At the age of ten

She cuts her hair with a pair of garden shears

And realizes she doesn’t know what she’s doing

The next day her mother sighs and takes her to the barber

She digs up her old box and tumbles inside

This time, she remembers

to poke holes so she can breathe

But as a shaft of light shines through

She wonders (and wonders and wonders)

If the outside is as dark and murky

As she remembered it to be

At the age of twelve

Her box is beginning to cramp

She feels sick and dizzy from

Monday to Friday and wonders if maybe

Just maybe it was time to get out

It would be brief she promises to herself and opens one shaft

(Very very carefully) until the other one

Is forced open much more suddenly

Than she would have wanted

At first she loses balance, trips and lands in darkness

Falling, sinking, drowning,

until she opens her eyes

Feels the newfound wind against her hair, the sun bathing her body

And floats