Archives :: M
When One Door Closes
Appeared in the Spring 2006 issue.
"The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep." —Rumi
You are naked when they storm the door;
I engage in some futile struggle to cover you,
a profane virgin in the temple
of Vesta. I needn’t have bothered.
They brought the sheet—white cotton,
meager thread count, standard size for beds
and bodies. I make of that cloth
a sail, set you to sea like a lauded chieftain
on a Norse boat, but ships do not sink
in desert dunes. I give you to strangers
instead, transfixed until the van’s metal aperture
slams shut on your story, my sagacity.
Failed provider, I have left you in the cold
with the thinnest of fabrics, no coin
in your mouth. The entry to our home remains
ajar for days, a broken yew strewn across
the threshold. When that passageway closes,
I am traitor, treasonist wife who deadbolts
the door against a husband unfaithful
enough to die. Harbored in my hand, your band
of gold, their archeological find. I swallow
the ring; it cuts through the larynx gone
tight in my throat, and in my stomach
it turns round, full, and open.
View bio information and additional poems published in Half Drunk Muse on the author's main archive page.
Copyright 1999-2008 M.