Damp

The oak is too heavy for one person to slide,

but the floorboards groaned until it gave.

Behind it, the wall had been holding a secret,

a map of a country I never want to visit.

It’s black and spreading in a jagged arc,

a velvet bruise that’s eating the little blue roses

on the paper my landlord said was new.

The pipe has been weeping for months, I guess.

I touched the center of the dark patch.

It felt like expensive fabric, soft and wrong.

It’s the only thing in this apartment

that seems to know exactly how to grow.