Ode to the Bedroom Window
by CJ Calamari
The paint comes off in rows and sings like blades
of sunlight cutting into skin; bleed out
and stain the molding wood as it’s displayed
from under cracks your mother cried about.
Bugs tiptoe through the window screen half-down
but wind will force the curtains in; you pull
them off and wrap them ‘round you like the dress
your mother had as her communion gown.
A Dylan record pulses past in full,
celestial waves for neighbors less obsessed.
No guest can pull the curtains back or look
where birds have made their unloved nest. Uphold
your mother’s front; keep close how she mistook
the pattern in the shattered glass as gold.
Feign reverie as rain draws trails and paths
like roads to Naples. Hear cicadas stroke
their wings with yawns and let them cry in vain.
We left the windows open; feel their wrath.
To listen in the day is but a joke
’til fireflies declare the night their reign.
Succumb to winds that cradle cheeks: cold touch
that’s calloused, rough, but tenderhearted. Homes
are hand-me-downs, like frames with names—so much
that once felt leaden still reads like a poem.
Your mother points them out and jokes of times
where these few names were everything to her.
And in your father’s native tongue, so loud,
so fright’ning Gods will think the bells have chimed,
call out to stars and worlds alike and slur
your words. Make them aware. Make old man proud.
The paint comes off like roads behind your house,
and children eat the chips to kill themselves
when they're condemned through cursèd vows
of Saviors, Martyrs—lies that overwhelm.
Indulge yourself with myths of Saturn’s rings
and press your nose against the screen to see
if lies can be enough to make you sleep.
Twist screws out of the frame so Gods and Kings
can watch the coward whom you love retreat.
And sneak back in to pray your soul to keep.