5.07 I leave the room and enter the room
of this mid-century gothic home—
wainscoting at eyelevel and a wrapped pothos
around exposed piping. An oak tree grows
in the center of the room, ensconced in tall glass.
In this room, my father is relishing some
the ending to a movie
some forgotten catchphrase
the way to raise a child as if graphed and calculated.
In this room, my mother gathers dried sunflowers
from a box with the dog’s ashes, miming
the words to her own mantra. Most people
like to live.
I leave the room and I fear
the becoming of them,
so I will myself new.
I enter this room now—
every person who has held me stands
in this room. I gather myself in the corner,
finger a lace window curtain.
There is only one path out of the room.
In this iteration of the room
I eat leftover clafoutis in bed.
There is shame in this act.
I know this because after every swallow
I begin at the beginning
again I leave the room.