We all have a room that we have left

at some point.

There was a door you closed.

The hinges were made from brown leaves

on the trail by your house.

Throw blankets with images of

cats screen printed on them

were the frame.

Locked the door with incense smoke.

You have drawings from first grade

scattered like tiles on the floor.

In one drawing you wrote a poem about your

turtle but only you think it’s profound.

You know that you

wrote it because your turtle

died when the frost came early that year.

The poem is happy to everyone else.

You linger at the threshold.

You turn out the light.

You wrap yourself with the

throw blanket like a cape.

You stack picture books on your

head. You cradle the limp

shell of a lime-green monkey

your dad one for you when the

carnival came to town on schedule.

like a train stop.

Somehow you pack your room around

your body like a parka or

and astronaut suite.

Because all you’ve ever done

is walk along the

edge of a nebula.

You peel off the layers that night.

You have clementine skin

and blue veins

that gush like the creek

when the frost came early that year.