Second Door, Third Floor, Public Housing

By John Grey

Dark roses grow here,
decently enough.
Do you not see them
from your blanket,
dreaming of escape routes,
the face in your mirror, freed.

From your breast goes up,
brown flesh, hair of black.
You can’t stop bleeding.
You want to change
You want to die...
if only you could,
if only it were possible
in your bed.
Leaving! Leaving!
You cry
Let me climb!
Let me come!
Let me come!

Gun, drugs, beatings,
no more I,
nor is my house my house
Nor the two friends
murdered this past week,
dead of scrap,
of the moon of tin,
of the broken window,
of the sound of boulders
resounding from the roof.


John Grey has recently been published in The Talking River, South Carolina Review and Karamu. He has work upcoming in Prism International, and a poem forthcoming in The Evansville Review. He lives in Rhode Island.