"The Black Room," by Joy Harjo
"The Black Room"
by Joy Harjo
She thought she woke up.
Black willow shadows for walls
of her room. Was it sleep?
Or the star-dancer come for her dance?
There are stars who have names, who are
dreams. There are stars who have families
who are music. She thought she woke up.
Felt for skin, for alive and breathing blood
rhythm. For clothes or an earring she forgot to
take off. Could hear only the nerve
at the center of the bone--the gallop
of an elegant horse. She thought she woke
up. Black willow shadows for walls she
was younger then. Her grandmother's house
sloped up from the Illinois River in Oklahoma.
The house in summer motion of shadows breathed in cool
wind before rain rocked her. Storms were always
quick could take you in their violent hard rain
and hail. Gritty shingles of the roof. Rat
rat rat ratting and black willow branches twisting
and moaning and she lay there, the child that she was
in the dark in the motion. She thought she woke up.
Joey had her cornered. Leaned her up against the
wall of her room, in black willow shadows his breath
was shallow and muscled and she couldn't move and
she had no voice no name and she could only wait
until it was over--like violent summer storms
that she had been terrified of. She thought she
woke up. Maybe there were some rhythms that weren't
music; some signified small and horrible deaths
within her--and she rode them like horses into
star patterns of the northern hemisphere, and
into the west.
This morning she thought she woke up.
Alarm rang and fit into some motion, some voice
within her other being--a dream or
the history of one of the sky's other stars.
Still night in the house, she opens
herself for the dark. Black horses are slow
to let go. She calls them by name but she fears
they won't recognize hers, and if the dance
continues in nets of star
patterns
would it be sleep?
by Joy Harjo
She thought she woke up.
Black willow shadows for walls
of her room. Was it sleep?
Or the star-dancer come for her dance?
There are stars who have names, who are
dreams. There are stars who have families
who are music. She thought she woke up.
Felt for skin, for alive and breathing blood
rhythm. For clothes or an earring she forgot to
take off. Could hear only the nerve
at the center of the bone--the gallop
of an elegant horse. She thought she woke
up. Black willow shadows for walls she
was younger then. Her grandmother's house
sloped up from the Illinois River in Oklahoma.
The house in summer motion of shadows breathed in cool
wind before rain rocked her. Storms were always
quick could take you in their violent hard rain
and hail. Gritty shingles of the roof. Rat
rat rat ratting and black willow branches twisting
and moaning and she lay there, the child that she was
in the dark in the motion. She thought she woke up.
Joey had her cornered. Leaned her up against the
wall of her room, in black willow shadows his breath
was shallow and muscled and she couldn't move and
she had no voice no name and she could only wait
until it was over--like violent summer storms
that she had been terrified of. She thought she
woke up. Maybe there were some rhythms that weren't
music; some signified small and horrible deaths
within her--and she rode them like horses into
star patterns of the northern hemisphere, and
into the west.
This morning she thought she woke up.
Alarm rang and fit into some motion, some voice
within her other being--a dream or
the history of one of the sky's other stars.
Still night in the house, she opens
herself for the dark. Black horses are slow
to let go. She calls them by name but she fears
they won't recognize hers, and if the dance
continues in nets of star
patterns
would it be sleep?