I watched as he filled the suitcase

with neatly folded jumpers and knitted socks.

Besides the woollen scarf he placed

hand-picked memories

where printed smiles and crooked teeth

stained the pages of a shrivelled album.

If only he knew how to tuck the twisted branches

of the walnut tree beneath those crumpled jeans,

if he could bottle the sign of the lonely moon

in a jar, now used for preserved pickled lemons.

If only he could fold the yawn of dusk and slip

her speckled embers between layers of pressed shirts,

scatter the constellations between empty pockets

and squeeze the kaleidoscope of dusk’s laughter

into the ripped hems of a ruffled blouse.

I watched as he sealed the lid

with an easy turn of a lock and key.

© Maria Zeb

Maria is a student studying English and Creative Writing at University of Birmingham. She explores and experiments with various literary forms, often subverting traditional notions of style, form and language.  To contact Maria email:

Email: maria9357@outlook.com