Everything is happening at once. My skin, from all of the slapping, is panic red. The plastic tape holder breaks a second time as I try to meld two pieces of cardboard into one. The box is almost too old to hold anything of value, and it was only purchased last year. This is my third move within this time. A dog I once owned is photographed onto a purse I once used. Scarves of umber and gold lay tangled nearby. I sit on cement flooring, beneath a jungle of dried flowers. Moving these delicate bones will be like keeping a toothpick upright in my palm. Shiny tape covers a long crack in the stone ground. Little ants are trying to crawl out, but they stick to the tape, instead of getting out. I slap my head, then my shoulder. A nest of spiders has burst in the ceiling lamp, and they erupt down upon me. There is so little light in my basement apartment that I cannot pack anywhere else. My wooden crow sits and looks out the window. I pounded in his feet so that he would stay. His beak holds onto a ring that used to have meaning. I pounded this in too. Both him and the ring will stay, along with the ants and the spiders. Sandra is still pressed to the refrigerator. She will come with me. She is the owner of the dog I once owned.