the hallway

 a poem

scalpels...

sharp, shiny scalpels dripping with tears of red

that came from the operating room --

they shouldn't have gone in there.

who let them out? 

where are the professionals? 

"don't go into the hallway," you whisper, 

back pressed against the door, 

hand guarding the silver lock. 

"it's safer in here," where there is light

and a nightstand and a rickety bed and sacred light. 

outside there are voices, echoes, scalpels. 

they cry because they don't want to hurt us

but they're going to anyway. 

"don't come into the hallway," they wail,

teeth grinding teeth, 

fingernails scraping metal. 

"it's safer wherever you are," and they're right. 

I sink into sandy brown quilts

and draw a peace of mind into these white naked walls. 

something that looks like home, 

but isn't quite the same. 

I tell you to step away from the door; 

you say that you will, as long as the hallway

doesn't find its way through the cracks

and flood this room with its echoes and cries. 

"take your finger and write whatever you want,

like this:" I sketch nothingness onto the canvas. 

"no one will ever have to see."

because it's safe here with you, 

much safer than the hallway.