The room is yours, like the house, like the sun, like
the man you want me to call Papa.
There are hands. His. Yours. Hands that push and sting and
choke my body. My body, also yours.
There’s a mouth. I flinch when it calls my name. Everything is so ugly
in the mouth, especially me.
It’s all for your own good, you say with kindness;
your kindness also a mouth.
There’s a window. It lets nothing out, not even air.
In the room in my dreams, I sit by the window and sing to the moon.
Behind me, the old fan cricks and cracks and groans like an ailing ghost.
I sing and sing, louder and louder, so I never look at it too long.
