Growing Pain | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
You can say it is a hotel. Rich, with dark wood and gold-framed mirrors, red carpets
like open mouths. Keeping in mind you are lost—corridors turn into more corridors full of white doors like teeth, and the plush elevator, its glossy maple paneling, mauve cushions, dark glass, is not going to the main floor, and while it goes deeper, rolling into the hotel’s windowless guts, it grows smaller.
And you cannot breathe upholstery or wrought iron, and as the elevator tightens around your ankles, your thighs and then hips your hands flutter at the black lacquer buttons like blind fish in a tank.

Or else you can say, “I wandered all night in the throat of a whale and couldn’t find the door,
but I saw a reflection without my face and felt what it feels like to be swallowed—
a dry feeling that rubs like a horse’s hide and will not give, even under pressure of elbows and the hard flat of my hand. Before, I saw a building and thought: building. Since then, I have moved my body into many structures, my face, my shoulders, knees pressed into corners and bones, and I came to know a wide hunger and its pained digestion.”

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