Tag: prose

My house has four rooms
and I have mistaken each one
for a chamber of the heart.

The kitchen keeps what burns.
The bedroom keeps what enters.
The hallway keeps footsteps
long after they are gone.

The last room
is always closed.

I tell people
it is storage.

I tell myself
the same thing.

But sometimes at night
I hear it beating—

that low, stubborn sound
inside the walls,

keeping the whole house alive
from a room
I never open.