Poetry

The Old House

I am taken back to this
once hot room, how hot it had been,
where tea was brought in for me, by my brother,
and as I recollect was dropped somehow, in some way,
onto my back and the carpet. The yellow wallpaper,
flinched at my yearning and keen touch, and made me,
I recall, knock you to the ground for your carelessness,
I can laugh now about it as the marks of proof
have faded but the thought of this room, us together,
how ugly it has become and how I wish
I could be there. 

Mollie Davidson