my place:
mostly brick with
one cast iron door;

bright azure and tall,
no windows so you cant really breathe
any fresh air in here.   you hear
the click of my boot heels stepping
further away from you and my hands
turn the knob.
interminable door slam,
the echo of a lock,
the impenetrable absence that thirty plus years of
disengagement birthed.

and you stand there–
stubborn diamond blade,
hair tucked behind ear,
eyes face me like open streams
when you know i’m just thirsty.
you stand there and
place your hand for support.

you manage to find a soft spot
in the mortar
and start biting.

“the door”


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