I could paint some surreal image
of this room—how the sun latches
to my back on the walk inside, how I screw it
into the lamp and how it sprouts
the seeds I scattered
across the floor. I could say it stays there
and keeps this room warm. I could say it lives there
until the ceiling tiles part
to reveal the moon.
I suppose this naked gap could allow
for fog to pile on top of us, for us
to shape it into Queen and Queen
costumes, able to play dress-up
again. Perhaps crickets could come
next, the rub of their thighs
to replace the hum of machines.
But this all would be dishonest.
There is really a dresser with photos,
there is a bible stuffed with letters,
sometimes there are visitors who know
my name. There is the sharing of memories
and alcohol and alcohol. There is a wooden
box with a keyhole. In the corner is a window
with the shade always drawn
and a bed that seems to grow larger
but never wide enough
for me to lay against her.
Alison Hazle is a poet/writer and art school survivor. She plans to pursue an MFA somewhere far away from Baltimore.
