Like Jimi
by rebecca ~ February 28th, 2010. Filed under: Uncategorized.
There is no there there. The room is here
and they live inside it. The ceiling seems
the loneliest place of all, a barren land
where a spider nests in a corner
and the music of dried insect shells
tingles in its threads. The walls
act as four barriers to the outside.
Each muffles the shuffling of feet and
the flapping of wings until living seems
swallowed in white plaster tombs.
She sits here, her hair is straight
and brown and it hangs down
into the roots of an elm tree, these roots spreading
sideways. The window thick with ice, rots
in its frame, and a child sleeps steadily
inside the room, next to her, inside
secret dreams. In her dream she cast spells
on an electric guitar. Like Jimi, in black feathers,
she blows the amp and crowd’s eardrums off.
She played that song of wind and snow, wordless
pine green shadows and icy blues, winter leaves
of dead summers. There is no there here. She knows
this. Her child sleeps. The room is here
and they live inside it. The cord connected
to the lamp on the table gives weak light.
Her child smiles at nothing. Then he screams.