By Abigail Rudibaugh
Maybe I’ll tell you a story
of a room built—corners made of crepe
and diamond slits serenading
the bulb inside that sometimes gets too hot,
fizzles out, flickers to need tightened or loosened.
It’s worth mentioning that it often stays strong,
steady, predictable in all its unseen, expected ways.
Rest helps this.
Conversation that goes deep into the night.
Food that has been roasting.
A ground crisp and open for walking.
I hope you can smell the sweet potatoes
and imagine the butter rolling down the valleys
and how it warms the room on cold nights like these—
perhaps, you too, who have been in this room,
who have been this room,
or the diamonds singing back to the light,
or the light in its varying degrees, like me.