The first room is a ghost—another's hand
pressed into your hand. You, a lost Alice,
tumbling through the dark woods,
your new dress ruined.
In this room, you are your own heroine running
& running & never looking back.


The second room: a coffin. You trace
chalk marks on the wall & with each step
a new face, a new story to be told. You wait.
Sometimes there is food. Sometimes
there is nothing. You remember
chalk on the lapel:
the x x for mental defect.

The third room is a fever. You rest
against the door, palms pressed flat
upon the surface. The third room never tells.
The third room burns right through you.