PoetryAloud
Rowan Taw Reads Val Dering Rojas
When the morphine wears away
there is a room with a metal door-- it's creaking open secretly as I sleep. There is a room with a metal door that isn’t really a room at all. As I sleep, it’s hot as a furnace. That isn’t really a room at all: it is a box. It's hot as a furnace-- bare flame burning. It is a box with a rocking chair, rocking, bare flame burning, in the corner, a crib. With a rocking chair, rocking, motherless and babyless, in the corner, a crib-- you cannot enter this room. Motherless and babyless in the dead quiet of night, you cannot enter this room because this door is too small. In the dead quiet of night, it's creaking open secretly because this door is too small when the morphine wears away. |
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