In a Room of One’s Own

Written by Jasmeen Kaur

Illustrated by Laura Gomina

"A coal, full of small suns, shimmering on the dim verge of a dream dreamt in the ink of the night"

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In a room inside my

head, there is a room

inside a house.

Resting

before the front door is

a silver dawn

waiting to be

opened, or maybe just

seen once. And

bordering this dawn, there is

a distant flame,

which is to say, a coal

full of

small suns,

shimmering

on the dim verge of a dream

dreamt in the ink

of the night. In a house

such as this one,

in a room of

one’s own,

no one has to

look at me or utter

my name.

Here, one can

hear graphite cracks of

a charged white sky

conform into

silence—

perfect medium for

words.

And buried within the rock

of this land, this

land of this home,

hymns ripple into the

ancient aquifer of

deprivation,

like photons descending

through the cosmic eye

and ending up in the

brown belly of a

blind cavefish.

In a room such as

this one,

the light

remains incomplete.

In a body that becomes a

thing like a

home,

truth is the fruit called

blood and can be

be easily tasted

through the

presence of the nerve,

which is really to say that

language is a

bodiless thing,

hoping to be

touched.

This room, pressed against this home, is like

the home, pressed against a

dazzling and mesmeric void,

which is to say,

anything outside

myself.

And resting within the

bright blackness of this home,

there is a deafening light eclipsing

the floors, its walls,

the hearth and stone,

which is really

to say that

deep within me,

there is

dense poetry

waiting to be

felt.