The Box Man
A man built a box on the edge of town.
It was the size of a garden shed,
gray and smooth on all sides.
What’s the box for? we asked.
It brings jobs and opportunity, said the man.
Our mayor liked the sound of that.
The box kept growing.
Soon it was the size of a grocery store.
What do you put in the box, we asked.
They put bad things in the box,
said our moms and dads.
The box was the size of our elementary school.
We joked about it. Who knew there were so many bad things
around here?
The man paid for a nice, black road
to go from the center of town
right up to the northern wall of the box.
It was the size of an office tower,
but still just a box like he said.
Our second grade teacher, Ms. Phelps,
was a security guard now.
She turned us away at the gate.
The local newspaper said the box was the best thing
to happen to our town in a generation.
The Box Man must have been very pleased
with the coverage.
He bought the paper.
He laid off some reporters, but that was okay.
They got jobs at the box.
Our high school had a special class for juniors
and seniors about how to work at the box.
That was smart, since there weren’t a lot
of options after graduation.
The Box Man donated a big check to the school district.
The next year box classes were required for all students.
You could get a waiver if you planned to go to college,
but no one could afford the tuition, and anyway,
you didn’t need a degree to work at the box.
The box was the size of a football stadium.
Technically it was still on the edge of town,
but that edge wasn’t as far as it used to be.
A lot of us could see the box from our yards.
The Robinsons and Gonzalezes used to live over there.
Not to worry, said the Box Man.
They got a good deal, said the mayor.
But what’s really inside? we wanted to know.
We whispered so no one would hear us.
We raced our bikes around the fence.
It took twenty minutes to make a single loop.
The box was as tall as a skyscraper,
and just as wide as it was tall.
When the sun went behind it,
our skin prickled with cold.
Let’s sneak inside, we said.
But how?
Ms. Phelps would know.
Ms. Phelps didn’t work as a guard anymore.
She’d fallen ill.
Her house had been eaten by the box,
along with all her neighbors’ houses.
The Box Man built a dormitory for them.
Not to worry, he said.
It’s quite nice, said the mayor.
I can’t help you, said Ms. Phelps.
She poured us some juice.
Just tell us what’s in there, we said.
She rubbed her eyebrows with her palms.
I don’t know.
By the time we left, the box had eaten town hall.
Our moms and dads argued at dinner.
Maybe we should move.
But what about our jobs?
They both worked at the box.
At noon, night fell for 93 minutes.
The next day it was 94.
What’s in the box? we asked in English,
in Algebra, in Social Studies.
No talking, said our teachers. Turn to page 62.
At lunch, we heard a rumor you could watch it moving,
bulging inch by inch, eating weeds and gravel.
We cut class to see for ourselves.
There were a lot more guards along the fence.
We didn’t dare get close.
At the Box Day parade,
all the guards marched in rows,
their rifles pointed up.
When the great shadow came,
we applauded and put on our coats.
The evening news interviewed people from other towns.
They wanted a box of their own.
It brings jobs and opportunity, said the experts.
We’re taking bids now, said the Box Man.
Somebody asked about the sun.
Not to worry, said the Box Man.
It’s still up there, said the experts.
We all lived in the dormitories.
The box didn’t pay enough for the rent.
We tried making money on the side
but the guards put up cameras.
They watch us to keep us safe, we said.
I heard the other box towns are worse, we said.
I’m pretty lucky, we said.
A roof, a job and 58 minutes of sun.
The next day it was 57.
The election was soon.
Somebody challenged the mayor.
Remember when we had 75 minutes of sun?
It doesn’t have to be this way!
The Box Man wanted the old mayor to win.
We need to compete with other box towns,
the old mayor said.
The jobs and opportunity could go away.
We said He’s right.
We said What difference does it make?
We went to the polls. We stayed home.
54 minutes of sun.
The old mayor won.
He delivered a speech.
Three cheers for the Box!
The first bullet struck the podium.
The second entered his cheek.
This is what’s wrong with society, said the experts.
The box ate our town.
Our town was the box.
The dorms in the shadow were cheaper.
What’s in the box? our children asked.
They put bad things in the box, we said,
so you better behave.
We hated the box when we went to sleep.
and again when we woke up.
Hate is bad for you, said our therapists.
Have you tried loving the box?
Whenever something happened,
we said Thank god for the box.
Good or bad, thank god for the box.
We said God doesn’t exist. We said God is king.
43 minutes of sun.
The box ate our neighbors.
The box ate our friends.
Tell us how to stop the box, said our children.
We argued about it at dinner.
You still have it better than other box towns.
You should thank god for the box.
We have to do something, the children said.
They snuck off on their bicycles.
We knew where they were going.
It’s our job to keep them safe, we said.
We sent them to their rooms.
We kicked them out of the house.
39 minutes of sun.
Our children joined the box guard.
They ran for mayor.
They moved away.
32 minutes of sun.
Our children had children.
They made up stories about clouds and birds.
We put their drawings in a special folder.
28 minutes of sun.
They hated waking up at dawn.
We said Stand in the yard and face east.
You’ll thank me when you’re older.
The box ate the mountains and the lake.
17 minutes of sun.
Some people blew up another town’s box.
The Box Man went on television.
This is an act of hate!
None of us are safe, the new mayor said.
Our children called. They didn’t call.
We watched the news. We lay in bed.
We wondered if it was day or night.
14 minutes of sun.
The Box Day parade was the largest in history.
Guards fired happy bullets into the sky
and angry bullets into the crowd.
The experts said later that people threw rocks.
This is what’s wrong with society, they said.
11 minutes of sun.
Our bodies were too old to get up at dawn,
then too old to get up at all.
Our children came to say their goodbyes.
They held our hands. They paced around.
They opened the curtains. They shut them.
We said Come sit on the bed and talk to me.
Well, you’ll be happy to know we all wake up early
for our 7 minutes of sun, they said.
And the Box Man is pleased that our boxes are growing—
No, we said.
Let’s not give that man any more words.
I’d rather hear about the town
they used to show on the news
where the days are long and unbroken.
Pretend you’ve been there, even if it’s a lie.
Tell me you know how they won.
In my left ear, whisper their names.
In my right ear, whisper their methods.
Repeat the story from temple to temple
as you turn my head like the earth.
Your bright face will rise and set,
casting no shadows between us.
Make me a promise at each horizon.
Yes, you’ll teach your children.
Yes, it can be done.
Miguel Camnitzer (he/him) is a queer, Jewish community organizer and activist working within the Palestine liberation movement to end US complicity in genocide. He lives in Los Angeles with his husband. You can find his writing in The Los Angeles Review, LA Public Press, Knock LA, and more.