We all have rooms;

great whale bellies that echo, calcium deficient,

with Spectres clutching heads,

waltzing in nausea.

 

In these rooms, we are a spectacle;

too solid and growing, but bent

from lack of sun -

we watch our feet all day,

walking at eye level

and cuss.

 

Sometimes in these rooms,

 we are the marrow;

cement oozing from our pores,

glazing our eyes like marble,

rib cages embracing our skin,

and a window’s latch piercing

our lung within.

Too tight is the outside,

and too loose is what is in;

painting these rooms,

a postcard yellow.

 

Some rooms, like lovers,

are places we need for sleep.

Up to our knees, we try to believe,

a soft press of dark red,

and a thumb up to a mouth.

But we pout, snatching covers -

Tulip tourettes - and everything comes undone.

 

Sometimes we have to be

the only one to have a room,

yes, the only one.