My room
was a house on fire
a room — aglow
in the red REM      disappearing
embers      dimming into
night
It was a room      of my own
preparation      kindling split
and stacked      over yesterday
news      papers I’d spark
It wasn’t a games      room
it wasn’t a Sunday      afternoon
it was the warmth      an evening hug
a Mother’s love      a Father’s tug
it was winter      chased      sawdust erased
my room      a chore      a childhood whore
a mortared mantle — my father’s hands —
of gathered larch      set afire
by vestal virgin      of thirteen — nay,
eighteen      till the fire went out —
I lay in its heat      tracing it dying life
the ebb and flow      a wasting light
hot — always burning — never warm
searching      the smoke’s ascent      for answers
for meaning      learning      discerning
my Room — my living room.

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).

Today’s prompt:  Day Twenty-Eight:  Today’s (optional) prompt is brought to us by the Emily Dickinson Museum. First, read this brief reminiscence of Emily Dickinson, written by her niece. And now, here is the prompt that the museum suggests:

Martha Dickinson Bianchi’s description of her aunt’s cozy room, scented with hyacinths and a crackling stove, warmly recalls the setting decades later. Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life.

30 Poems in 30 Days

All text and photography © Dale Schierbeck

…. more of my original Poetry on EatsWritesShoots here.