Room

Vacuuming the bedroom and
it's smaller than I'd remembered it.
The excitement of living in a cheaper
apartment, having a neighborhood
had made the floor expansive, walls
enormous; the window had been full
of flooding light. We'd toured it first
in May and now, it is August, humid—
the former occupants leaving us
with dusty corners, a few expired
coupons above the fridge.

But then, turning on the radio,
changing a curtain, hanging skirts
into the closet—fuchsia, orange—
and imagining where the mattress
and the bureau ought to be,
something larger than the fan in
the kitchen was clicking—it,
spinning too in a sweeping rotation
was the sense of something fitting.
Something smaller than expected,
but nonetheless, enough. Because
there will be room to feel lost here,
and there will be room to retreat.

And in this space a body feels
unusually present, and strong.
So that if you were to arrive and
explore and wrap your arms
around my own, we might understand
what it means to be whole—
our embrace would be wide as the world.

.