Packing Lunch

From clavicle to ribcage – – – 
a ragged zipper scar.
Soon to be reopened.

Your battery heart has wound down.
No one would know it.
Your eyes hold the sunlight of ten worlds,
and you never stop moving.

Tomorrow, a fancier version,
with remote boosting powers
plugged into your pacemaker.
Finally ready to keep the beat
for the slumber party
of nerf guns and cotton candy
you always wanted.

You peer inside the Totoro lunchbox.
Crusts cut. No mayo. Oreos. Even Takis.
Your smile is a beam.
Snap the lid tight; zip lunch box closed,
my kitchen gloves paler than surgical blue
as I do what only a mother can:
make your mouth tingle
your stomach full with forgetfulness.

*

Brandice Askin writes poetry and fiction to help her sleep at night. A cat can often be found obstructing her keyboard. Her poetry is published in Cool Beans Lit and Moonstone Arts. She is a past winner of the Suncoast Writers Conference Short Fiction Contest. She currently lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, but has also called Oregon and California home. Find her at brandiceaskin.com.