I shipped my past to this continent
in a box I open rarely. In it,
my mother’s amber necklace
and my grandmother’s silver cross,
a dried flower from my prom bouquet,
ribboned letters from old lovers,
notebooks with poems written
thirty years ago in another tongue,
a brass key that opens no lock I know,
a photograph of the house on the hill
that stands now empty, where my voice
still echoes, unheard,
five thousand miles away.
About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019). Her poems recently appeared in Gasconade Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Trailer Park Quarterly, Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere.
Image Credit: Marion Post Wolcott “Child bringing home suitcase on sled, Franconia, New Hampshire” (1939) The Library of Congress