In the corner of the closet
in permanent marker
I wrote in small letters
“this room belongs
to Rosemerry Wahtola
forever and ever, no matter
who else lives here.”
The room had been built
for me in the basement
by my father, and I loved
its orange carpet, its
subterranean dark,
the way I could close
the door and be entirely alone.
The room was not mine,
no more than the mountains
are mine, these mountains
I love for their openness,
their long trails, their cliffs,
their secret glades.
No, it is always we
who belong to the spaces
that hold us, though
they change, they mark us
invisibly, they write
on our inner walls,
as if to say you are mine,
child, forever.
