papers kept from high school; dried, brown laurels crumpled
from being rested on for too long, a note from Pat written in
our secret language of eight grade--morcish; a yukata, pink
dancing shoes worn as a tree-spirit in my one and only CTC
production; not-used-once-this-year black lamp, course
descriptions for community college (which made me remember
my teachers: Steven Burik for philosophy--all the girls, myself
excepting, had a crush on him; Mathai Mathews for General
Biology, who would get our attention in class by calling, in his
heavy Indian accent, "Look at my bald head!"; Christopher
Hamilton, school's dean and my professor of American and
children's literature; Elizabeth Ong, environmental science;
Mandakini Arora, history of the United States II and Western
Civilizations; Elizabeth McDonald, the epitome of art teachers
with big glasses and loud jewelry; Professor Hazell, theatre
appreciation; Mr. Yu Chi Lam, computer class) movie ticket
stubs, a porcelain cat bought for my mom so long ago in
New York I can't remember what it's supposed to do
(something to do with tea pots); a poem scribbled on a piece of paper:
See the fierce and fiery eyes
See the glow and glimmer
Hear the tramp of pixie feet
Watch the fairies shimmer
a Simplicity dress pattern, Toy Story band-aids lost
amidst the jewelry box and q-tips and hair products, the
Manga Bible, Jesus pins, unnecessary amounts of book-
marks, vast mountains of empty journals (my intention
outspans my creativity); a flowered fan not used since
Japan; a collection of my poems--Professor Klatt has written
what I can only take to be 'Couscous' under the poem
"Element" (what my poem has to to with pasta is uncertain).
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