You Is Not the Room

Lisa Williams

You is not the room you thought it was,

capacious room for swearing, rambling,

turning, stomping the walls and floors.

It grew too hot and you were left inside

this not-room whose heat altered you

to stillness or that you sank in, stuck

and wandering in that little room of you—

poor room of the self you thought was larger,

starrier, like the one that blurred

your same small self in dreams, a realm

you roamed in, dangers filling up with air

and pliancy that curved them out of action.

What stir of hope, a long time like a fan

whirs inside the little room of you?