The Room

Four walls never expected

to become body part,

an extra chamber to the brain.

Before you came, they'd settled down

to being one more piece

in an architectural puzzle,

a combination of angles,

perfect horizontals and mutual understanding

with floors and ceiling.

They never anticipated

the way in which

you'd impose yourself upon them.

Your quirks became their oddities.

Your secrets melded so perfectly

with blue and white paper

that it was hard to tell

where telling and hearing left off.

Keeping a framework together

was all they had in mind.

But then came your framework,

and you weren't happy

until paint and eye,

wood and fingertips,

were nothing less than interchangeable.

Now, when you cry,

walls drip with sorrow.

When you laugh,

they brighten like dove wings.

The reverse is also true.

You're no longer just flesh and bone

but occupancy.

And now your mother is knocking on the door,

wants to come in, see if you're okay.

Her side of the door

is an extension of her hand.

Your side is the fragile edge of you.

No wonder the pounding.

by John Grey