Friday, June 1, 2007

Subletting a furnished apartment

This room is not my room.
Its warm oak and woven wicker chairs,
It's tall armoirs and curvacious vases,
It's jaundiced lampshades and dying palms.

This room is not my room.
It's pictureless frames and fragile chandelier,
It's heavy mirrors, full of slate and reflection,
Its sighing slats of polished pine.

This room is not my room.
The nakedness of its bed and bathroom,
The salt and sugar of its sunlit kitchen,
The breeze balanced on its balcony.

This room is not my room,
But it will be
As I pull on the owner's legs like slacks,
Don his back like a shawl,
Slip into the socks of his feet, the gloves of his hands.

It will be as I glue his hair to my scalp,
Wear his face like sweat.

Knock and the door will be opened

I'll stand out here,
Waiting with my blue candle lit.
I'll stand out here,
Scratching the palms of my hands.
I'll stand out here,
Unravelling the braid of your wysteria.
I'll stand out here,
Chewing the flat wood of your door.
I'll stand out here,
Ankle deep in your welcome mat,
Lead lungs full of helium breath,
Knuckles dripping blood, not from knocking.