The Room Where the Light Stays Off

I hung my jacket on the wooden peg

and checked the glass for any trace of her—

the woman laughing by the chicken leg

who kept the wine glass steady for the host.

I looked at her until my eyes were blur,

and watched her fade into a graying ghost.

I turn the faucet until steam is thick,

and leave the light switch buried in the wall.

I don't need eyes to perform this old trick,

this quiet way of standing in the hall.

A washcloth pressed against the heated stream,

then wrung out hard until the cotton sighs.

I lay it on my neck and start to dream

while water drips down toward my closed-up eyes.

No one can see me standing in the black,

letting the day slide slowly off my back.