It's not about display

I have this special spot: It's a secret.

I will tell you though, now we know each other, a little.

There's this space

at the back of my kitchen cupboard

above greased-up tiles,

above scarred glass elements.  

It's dusty dark but dry enough

to store precious objects: a volcanic rock

from the top of Africa's Kilimanjaro

and a tiny cup

with which I was fed poison, sold jewels and almost died.  

The jewels are here too, Aquamarines in a little box with a cat on the lid.

In their oblique surface I see his reptilian face,

eyes without lashes

long fingers spooning liquid,

rapping the table like impatient spider's legs.  

There are other things here too - amid them I place

a blue book and its formulas.

I close the cupboard door. My cabinet is a secret one - 

it's not about display, it's about keeping things

safe.   

You won't tell any one -

will you?