Rainbow Room and the Red Chair

by Lauren Camp

I am granted every fork,
every chair, every blossom,
the lantern and saffron, escape
or alliance. It’s an agreement I made:
to spell the spare creaks, to carry
many books and not anyone else.
Hard work to stretch to the spines,
to rattle out commas. To become the woman
who nibbles on bacon and sits]
where light swings to lift out
each line, putting a final yes
at the bottom. I wanted a bathtub,
but I am paraphrasing the particular
into what I would not use.
All I really needed were clauses
and some evenings, I walk
to the plaza where burred people
dance. Much has been offered.
Pink lands on umber.
Extravagant light hollers into my silence.
I am hiding in public with my definition
of the spectrum of stars
arranged exactly as frames
for my pictures. And again, when I can,
my body in the thicket
of upholstery, only rising for corn cakes
and scones. I spend more hours
by the abiding lamp, black pen
in hand. I always intend a stop
to absorption. Room to room,
the seclusion is mercy.
The skin of my husband is distant.
Every night is desire
for summer grasses. After a while,
I find less in first times. Again,
the next day, I lift myself out
of the red heart in the corner near the low
lying windows, and announce
to the flowers nothing is wrong.
I’m looking for quiver, and will accept
only a corolla of words. They open their faces,
unblinking. I cling to their attention.