the secret room

bare, low-ceilinged
scents of old hounds and tired cedar
it holds only two people at a time

we lie on the wide, warped floor boards
tracing their map-like stains, their protruding, heavy-
headed nails, round as tiny mushrooms

we hold hands and compare freckles,
how they change with the shadows and time,
we taste each other’s palms to see we are true,
we count the rising hairs on the backs of our necks,
lifting up our loose shirt collars as if they were spider webs

and when we like, and when we have the strength,
we lift each other up, one after the other,
making a step of our fingers knotted together,
so we can peek out the one window
and see the only light of this world
as it plays across the long grass of the yellow hills,
across the tree who burns but does not give way