Portrait of a Bedroom Wall
We do not push the walls out
but instead pull the room in, drink
our already small space. My clothes,
washed and bagged, are still too big
for this disappearing body—it’s like
a magic trick: blink and you’ll miss
me. I’m not tangible anymore, these
bed bugs eating away more than just
our bedspread. Touch this translucent skin
and maybe you’ll find something
stronger than the body I see before me
in tinted windows, in tagged pictures.
I think about House of Leaves, the home
that did not know what size it was,
about the men who found themselves
less than they thought they knew, the codes
hidden, dark filled with whatever meaning
the reader can pour from themselves
I mistakenly called this place a home I walled myself in there are no doors here this is not an entrance.
Andrew Walker is a writer living and working in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in HAD, Crack the Spine, Eckleburg, paperplates, Apricity Press and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @druwalker94 or on his website at druwalker.com.
This poem is from South Broadway Press’ new anthology,
Dwell: Poems About Home. Purchase here.