Before the hotel, there is no Wendy.
We make her out of bangs and terror.
Out of gingham and coveralls
and mount her on the stairs.
Her only purpose is terror.
That which we go into,
down and down as into a cellar.
No Wendy after, a lit cigarette
burning her through second
marriage, her third. No Wendy
haunting the house that is
her husband. her hands
and head bloody. No Wendy
opening giant cans of corn
with a can opener in the kitchen.
Without all that crying, no Wendy
in the ink moving across the page
where we go down and down
like a rat into a trap where terror makes
us like a bed. Where we write our
names in blood on the wall
with our fingers. The Wendy
of our nightmares sobbing
through the bathroom door. 

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