I could paint some surreal image of this room—how the sun latches to my back on the walk inside, how I screw it into the lamp and how it sprouts the seeds I scattered across the floor. I could say it stays there and keeps this room warm. I could say it lives there until the ceiling tiles part to reveal the moon. I suppose this naked gap could allow for fog to pile on top of us, for us to shape it into Queen and Queen costumes, able to play dress-up again. Perhaps crickets could come next, the rub of their thighs to replace the hum of machines. But this all would be dishonest. There is really a dresser with photos, there is a bible stuffed with letters, sometimes there are visitors who know my name. There is the sharing of memories and alcohol and alcohol. There is a wooden box with a keyhole. In the corner is a window with the shade always drawn and a bed that seems to grow larger but never wide enough for me to lay against her.
Alison Hazle is a poet/writer and art school survivor. She plans to pursue an MFA somewhere far away from Baltimore.