It Is The Room My Husband Never Enters
It is the room my husband never enters-
Not an erotic euphemism,
An actual room in which
He also shows no interest.
It is just as well.
Within the room is my grandmother’s shawl
Which she wore when she crossed.
Crossed everything and everywhere-
The ocean, herself, the afterlife.
Here is our only child’s
Disassembled cradle. Her third-grade diorama,
Her (my) flute, her (our) old cat’s collar.
It is the room that rarely experiences light,
Memories absorbed into the wallpaper,
Happiness into the faded drapery.
It is the room where I now sit
And prefer to remain.
Copyright © Andrew McLean 2016
Andy McLean is a psychiatrist and published poet