Our Parents’ Room

is where the tigers live.

Not real tigers,
just pink carpet tigers. They’re scared
of the storm windows
and try to sneak into the closet.

It smells like cedar, or mothballs, or memories
of mothballs.

The closet guards the bed.
My brother says it cracks the door
to check on them.
I slept in there this morning, studying
Dad’s ties. Just like he said, soon
as night left,
the door opened.

Now I know our parents dream
of running, like tigers.
Mom was facing the bathroom
and Dad the windows,
so they wouldn’t wake up
with blood
under their nails.

Added: February 28, 2013 | Last changed: June 7, 2014