The Royal Suite

        The floor is uneven
            dingy slabs of smooth stone.
        The same soft drab color of the hills.
        The walls are irregular
            bumpy rocks mortared
             into odd places
        falling into pillars...
        Two straight columns
        step across the center
        of this immense low ceiling room,
        joined by arches that I suppose support the ceiling,
        but more importantly they give this wide open room
        a feeling of snug space.
        
        Along the walls are deep benches covered
        with soft pillow mattresses.
        Each bed being a long bench
        with a round bolster on each end,
        perfect as an elbow rest as you lean over to chat,
        or a pillow so you can sprawl out, half sleeping,
        but erect enough to watch
        as the children race from pillar to pillar,
        chasing themselves and each other and shadows
        of all the children who have played in this space,
        freed from chores or the strain of being a tourist,
        or whatever else compels them
        to act more than their age.

        We explore every numerous nook.

        Open up the carved wooden cupboard
        to find a large mirror,            
        gaze at the room echoed behind,
                                        
        then glance to see a shimmering self,                                                  

        shinning with curiosity.
        Gently close the mirror back
        behind it's heavy ornate doors.
        Who wants to look at a reflection
        when so much real is to be touched:
        The silk pillows are stripped with rich reds
        and golds in random bands, tasseled-
        everything a princess could wish for comfort,
        including all my loved ones close.

        I go to the furthest room,
        the smallest room,
        and sit down at a narrow desk
        that's built into the wardrobe.
        I suppose some in my place
        would be attending to their face,
        brushing blush on a cheek,
        color on lips...
        but I scribble words.

        Let my face be whatever
        it wants to become
        as my mind surges with
        impressions, textures, scents,
        music all to my mind
        as my mind flits through
        all I've experienced
        in a very full day.
        
        Images, one after another
        careening up a road
        that curves sharply
        unexpectedly always up,
        or down.

        Dust on my fingertips,
        my face.
        
        Wind.
        
        Everything spills
        into itself
        and each other
        what order was it in?

        What does it matter...



poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab