The Quiet Room

I lived in the quiet room, waiting. I lived

across the street, across from my uncle.

I lived in the wake of a crash, in a house

outside its century, twice over. I lived

lonely. I lived crowded. I lived seeking

without end. I lived at the time of the

heart attack, in the before and the after.

I lived next to a fire, in fear of a voice

I’d forgotten, a voice I have. I lived

in dialogue with silence, far from family

but family followed, in the heat of summer,

in the cold cold of winter, in the mountains,

in the open prairie, at home along the river.

I lived in the quiet room because I couldn’t

speak another room into existence, into air,

the materials and the measure weren’t there.