INSCRIBED ON A PILL BOX | Maya Klauber
After a while it helps to see things
differently. Like the pills: purples &
blues, off-white and oblong, perforated,
and pearlescent. I keep them safe here
in the small, wooden box you gave me
once. Some days it’s harder than others
to swallow this persistent pain. Some
days it all gets lodged in my throat.
That’s when I reach for that box
and run my fingertips over its burned-in
words, which state clearly: Love you with
all my heart (not half-heartedly; not just when
it’s convenient. Not with a love that will crumble
when these pills render me unrecognizable).
Sometimes when I feel most alone, I take it out
and shake it, like the smallest maraca (but my
greatest secret). I did this once on a city bus
and lost my grip. It looked like rainbow hail
falling, rolling under boots. People offered help,
but I said forget the pills—it’s the box I can’t lose.
And sure enough, when I held it again in my
aching hand and rubbed the cool insides, suddenly
you were with me. There is still so much ahead.
Maya Klauber is a poet and visual artist from New York City. She earned a Master of Social Work (MSW) from Columbia University in 2012, while coping with chronic health issues—experiences that have undoubtedly deepened her style of writing. Klauber, who resides in Manhattan with her beloved husband John and their dog, Lily, believes strongly in the innate value and healing power of story-telling and considers this a vital avenue of self-expression and connection for anyone touched by illness. Her poems have appeared in The Sunlight Press, Green Ink Poetry, Last Leaves and tiny wren lit. Her poem “The Volume of Pain” appeared in the Fall 2023 Intima.