In room 83
a guildhall of sorts
freed slaves once gathered,
asking their chains back.
Archive for May, 2011
In room 83
Room 82 was its own place, and in itself
could make heaven or hell, a hell of heaven or
even (occasionally) a heaven of hell.
And there―there is nothing, she said
as if she was hiding something
in that room labeled “81”;
yet she let me open the door
(I only saw old mannequins
and working tables in dim light).
I have seen old men cry when room 80 was mentioned.
Room 79 was a garage,
shutter half open in the summer;
moms was sitting on a bucket, just
one foot inside, shading from the sun,
licorice in her pubescent hands
when pops came and took her from behind.
He was persuaded that in all his acquisitions he would soon be swept away, yet he had selected for the diversion of his mind and the delight of his eyes works and objects of a suggestive charm, which he amassed in a room he labeled with the number seventy-eight (when asked why, he would only whisper “Metatron, Metatron” with a troubled look in his eyes).
Sometimes, at evenings, he sits in the middle of what through the years became a most weird storage room, and with a twisted accent he murmurs
Hyperbole! de ma mémoire
Triomphalement ne sais-tu
Te lever, aujourd’hui grimoire
Dans un livre de fer vêtu…
The laws were written on stone tablets, in number of 770 (plus 7 with interpretation laws, whose location is unknown) which were kept in 77 sealed clay jars which were kept in 7 iron-reinforced crates which were kept in room 77.