The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Maryann Corbett
A Dream of Rooms
Doors open into rooms he's never seen.
Light leans across the perfect hardwood floors.
Completely bare. Walls freshly painted, clean.
He enters. These are rooms he's never seen
or else their own rooms, stripped of pointless things.
The floors are bare. The walls are white now, clean.
Their early indiscretions in deep pinks
and greens have been absolved. The pointless things
that screwed themselves into his memory,
the pain of poor decisions, greens and pinks—
Gone. All has been somehow borne away.
The plastered-over holes of memory
don't show. The mice that chewed his mind are dead,
and the whole past is somehow borne away.
A space opens beside him. On the bed
something is not. And then his mind goes dead,
empty of everything but sun on floors.
A space shudders beside him on the bed.
He wakes then in the house he knows was theirs.
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