Space is not neutral.
It depends on who inhabits it
& how.
Here, it’s imbued with impulse.
It breathes.
It is wooded with dark creatures —
though it might just be me.
It’s a dimension I’d rather not think about.
I enter anyway. Being human.
A residue of violence clings to the windowsill.
You & your wife, why did you?
And repeatedly, according to the news.
The space is not neutral.
Nor is the one embracing the crib.
The room vomited.
It bled, peed, shat.
It made gurgling baby sounds.
It screamed its lungs out.
Day & night.
The space shifted to Intensive Care.
I enter because. In a way I have to.
Now it’s a tangle of circuitry.
It breathes mechanically.
In, out, in, out.
It is unresponsive to light.
Painting it would be out of the question.
Utterly.
Even thinking it.
But being human.
I’d imagine a landscape.
One, long, yellowy line.
With my pencil,
vigorously,
I’d strike it through.
