The Bread We Eat in Dreams

narwhals and my hands over my head

under my 2nd grade desk

too small and never green enough

to protect anyone.

We move apart,

two of us

two of them

one up toward grassy sunlight

and the escape hatch

a narrow, razor-angled way out

of the 20th century.

The other

distant as a lighthouse,

a lithe blue body flashing through heavy water

heading down, into a private,

lightless place.

The Room

There is a room and it moves through the world. The door of the room is black. The ceiling is blue. You have probably never seen the room—it is shy. Do not feel that it is a personal slight. The room moves according to its own unfathomable imperatives, on a schedule too long and hoary to sketch out on any flickering dark board. Once the door lived on a snowy beach in Norway for five years. It gathered ice on its lintel. A woman in a grey dress and shiny heels went in. Identical twin children came out, each holding a purple balloon with silver stars on it. The local council had just begun to charge admission to see it when it demurred, and migrated elswhere. For exactly three quarters of a second, it lived in Buenos Aires. A man saw it, but he told himself it was nothing.

I will tell you because we are close, and there can be no secrets between us, that it lived in my house for an hour, when I was seven and a half. It lived on the back wall of our garage, between moldy Stephen King paperbacks and a golden tower of National Geographics. I sat in front of the door cross-legged, and ate a cherry popsicle. It had an iron doorknob, with paisley copper flowers raised on it. I watched it. The sun went down. In the grain of the wood, I saw stars. I was very quiet in the presence of the room. It inspires silence. I didn’t go in. I was not a brave child. When I say it disappeared, I mean that the garage remembered that it did not have a black door in it, and was embarrassed.

Inside the room there is a thermostat. The old kind, with a crystal dial and a red arrow. It is set to 59 degrees. This is rather cold, of course. Perhaps it was hot, where the room was born. There is a double bed—the room is generous. The bedspread is deep red, with swirls and ferns in the same black as the door. The floor is wood, blond, slightly uneven, polished as if by many feet. The room also owns a silk rug that has seen better days, once indigo and figured in gold, now pale blue, figured in nothing. There is a porcelain washing basin, and a mirror with an ebony frame, a small bathroom with a clawfoot tub. A slip of rose-soap waits for dirty hands. There is a folding screen with a moonrise painted on it, and a velvet chair with a little footstool. A mahogany secretary sits redly in the corner, bearing three blue pens, a stack of very fine paper, (17 sheets), and a rotary telephone. The room has a window, but the curtains are always drawn. I do not know what it looks out on, no one who has drawn back the butter-colored curtains has come out again. On the wall is an oil painting of a black door—the room is self-regarding. And the ceiling, the deep, endless blue of the ceiling, slightly arched, with silver rafters, and silver stars painted with a tiny brush, constellations and chaos and the beginning of space.

There is another door in the room. I heard a man in Port-au-Prince say over cream-soaked coffees that once it was part of a hotel, and came loose of its moorings, and that is why there are two doors. One into what was once a long hallway of identical, elegant rooms. One into the adjoining room—which is now the world. I cannot confirm or deny that, but I remember the smell of plantain trees and how he wore two wedding rings. Hotels are unnatural, he said. Nature is offended by them.

All of these descriptions I have taken down from various men and women who have spent time in the room. It feels old, they say. Like someplace from a hundred years ago. But not two hundred, no—after all, there is the telephone to consider.

Did you call anyone? I ask.

It

doesn’t dial out, they all say. But there is a message. In French. It is garbled. I heard only:

They don’t all say it’s French. When the room lived in Marseilles, the message was in Sanskrit. Sometimes it’s Finnish. Sometimes Vietnamese.

A woman named Martine lived in the room for several weeks in 1974. She had been practical enough to pack a basket of bread, pickled onions, a hard cheese, dried apricots. It was a risk, taking the time for basket. The room might have slipped away. But the practicality of Martine is profound, and speaks from her even, shining nails to her square glasses. If she could not bring supplies, she would not be venturing into the unknown. Martine said that after the first week, it was as though she had always lived there, as though the washing basin and the slim rose soap had been hers since she was a child, as if she had written seven novels at that desk. She did not miss home, or wonder if anyone worried about her. The room takes care of that sort of thing, she told me. It is solicitous.

Did you look out the window. Did you go out the other door.

You wouldn’t understand. I was completely content as I was. I did not even see the other door, or the window. My heart was tremendously at peace. But I did turn up the heat. And as I slept, warm at last, I felt though I could see nothing, a man standing over me, looking at me with piercing eyes, eyes like keyholes. In one of his hands was a bouquet of peonies. A small one. Made of shadows. In the other he held my rose-soap. I cannot explain how I saw all of this while asleep in that perfect bed, but I did and it was not a dream. In the morning the thermostat read 59 degrees again, and I knew in the way that you can know these things, with total certainty and utter sorrow, that it was time to leave.I still had several apricots left, and the rind of the cheese.

Did you try to take anything from the room.