Bedroom

The clump of jessamine Softly beneath the rain Rocks its golden flowers.

In this room my father died: His bed is in the corner. No one has slept in it Since the morning when he wakened To meet death's hands at his heart. I cannot go to this room, Without feeling something big and angry Waiting for me To throw me on the bed, And press its thumbs in my throat.

The clump of jessamine Without, beneath the rain, Rocks its golden flowers.