Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2009


by Mag Kushner

She was the first.
I carry her name,
our initials entwine between the flowers
on the lid of the wooden box.
Inside lies the gold school medal
engraved with her success;
bride rings of three generations;
the keepsakes of my foremothers
inhabit this box,
the memory box she carved,
and I craved.
I waited -
but now I am the last.
It is mine too soon, and
I can not bear it.
The circle has closed
and like the box bearing my initials
stays shut.

Added: 12.03.2009