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(photo of a bedroom)
by Sharon Chmielarz
I can smell it—the room's odors—from way
over here—cigs, stale beer, spoiled milk,
sweat, urine, rotten wood, grease smoke
from the hot plate down in the cafe below.
Wait. Is there a window? Is the photo's
frame the only opening to sky or street?
Something is open enough for a grenade
of light to roll across the floor to the mattress
where a woman could fall asleep exhausted
from living in a pen, the least of rooms,
a defeated room, lacking funding. A migrant
who may have escaped hands me the match.