The Room

In the room with black shelves

I tried to make warm with synthetic orchids

The mirrored closet with fingerprints that won’t erase

I sit and wait for a call

Light from the window hits edges of empty IPAs 

Pouring brown color into the room 

There’s a voice

Velvety first, then gravelly against my ear

The trained sound of the answering machine 

And your voice that will follow the ringtone 

Two more minutes and it will come

I scrub my thoughts clean 

The housewife compensating

And, as if my body were pieces of driftwood

limbs, eyes, breasts, mouth

(all joints connected to something that will ignite)

I settle myself for the death of suspension 

I am flapping restlessly in panic

Switching on and off in flight

With the blinds rotting day away into a headcold sickness

of grey 

Somehow I’ve been confiscated in your absence 

There is still glass glittering over the hardwood

A hammer that beat holes over the broken floorboards

A mound of gauze brightened with crimson 

There is still a ringing waiting to be answered