your room was a jungle

August 5, 2014 § Leave a comment

The spare room was cream over oatmeal.
A haven by morning, streaming
cold and dank by nightfall:
jungles on the walls, red-eyed.

Against the foghorn down the hall
the spare room rustles and breathes in
her native body, running
blocking up a pair of ears
twenty-seven years rendered
sensitive to a past
unnoticed until its cycling.

Chemicals, wild, keep her up
keep her up, alone
keep her alone:
rustling in a room
cold oatmeal and fog
in a five-year old’s jungle.

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