Bedrooms In Which We Used To Sleep

They are temples of silence and

memory, thin paper-walled

sanctuaries. Secrets shelve

themselves among out-of-print books

and dusty manila envelopes.

 

Whose tears have stained the pillowcase

a jealous shade of yellow?

 

Who’s f*****g who each Sunday

after mass?

 

Who prayed to God each night for miracles,

misery, or something in between?

 

Somehow they’ll infiltrate, endlessly.

Years of uncertainty clinched

in their fists as they pound

the plaster, seeking proof

in the answers they will not find:

 

the past is a distant voice

that never learned their languages,

an intimate covenant only we know.

Paper does not speak;

it listens.