Fall 1968 • Vol. XXX No. 5 Poetry |

My Room

653 MY ROOM In nineteen hundred, when terminal Cancer was thought to be contagious, My great-grandmother brought one of her daughters To a dark Chicago rented room to "rest." The last week the doctor made her put on Rubber gloves. And the girl started to scream When she saw them, felt them on her flesh. I know. When I was seven I tried To stop breathing, stop the stupid in-out, In-out that made me feel like a fish. My rage when I gasped for air was childish, But so pure. Now, having taken shots, Given life, gulped the bait of love, I most wait In my body's darkened room for the gleam Of a rubber glove.

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