Closed Windows

By Chris Dungey

Well, of course you’d want to place heated objects—

stones, angle-irons fresh off the coals, or hot water

bottles beneath the sheets, if you’re going to leave

the windows open before you crawl in; if you’re

inviting a Michigan night like this one to fill the

room, wind fingering the frets of siding, playing the

eaves like a cracked recorder. Imagine our forefathers

believing they’d use up all the oxygen in a room,

only to wake up with nasal passages blocked, their

throats raw and constricted; beginnings of a terminal

influenza, ague, chilblains. I’ll risk your carbon dioxide

snores, the gasps of unwary dreams burning the close 

darkness left between us. 

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