Wild Blueberries

The room cannot be entered, the door is open,

but the air is tight, blue walls offer no hint

of sky, no heaven, no ocean in which to swim,

a pale ordinary, silence a shouldered sentinel.

 

What was it you were supposed to do in the room?

Was she to wait there for you? Was this the place

where it was to be delivered? You must have forgotten

the possibility of being cherished and remembered.

 

The floor of the room is yellow and glossy,

like a yolk suspended in an uncooked membrane.

The yellow can no longer be transcended or touched,

only viewed from the outside, hazy and unknowable.

 

There are locked doors at the end of the room,

two emergency handles, this is the pernicious,

ironclad law, a looping chain hanging down,

a pale ordinary, silence a shouldered sentinel.

 

What was it you were supposed to ask in the room?

Was this a place of intimacy? Was there to be comfort

offered under the single florescent light? What was the

the gift you were to be given, among the wild blueberries?