PoetryAloud

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Rowan Taw Reads Val Dering Rojas

When the Morphine Wears Away

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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