Carl A. Boon 

Two Sonnets In A Room 

(1) 
Here we are in a room  
that tastes of red fruit  
& rotten wood. You’ve pulled back 
your hair & search the walls  
for some familiarity; you run  
your hands against them  
to remember something I cannot. 
 
There are no windows,  
but we know it’s grown dark 
outside, as dark as if the stars 
were only an eventual, prizes 
we must wait for. I light the stove 
& listen for its flame to catch— 
like saints’ skin, like desire. 
 
(2) 
We can’t recall the train  
that brought us here, only the fog 
it sped through, the hobo song, 
the siding at Crimson River. 
You carried a handkerchief 
that belonged to your mother, 
a box of walnuts, three figs. 

You tell me it’s begun to snow  
again & signal for the panther  
inside me & extra heat. I rise, 
withering inside this beautiful awry  
of a dream, of you. In the morning 
birdsong will awaken us— 
& then you will remember.