I'll write the story on the door.
The wood warps
its pages as I go. I will wipe the wet
parts that touched the sea and this
longing for horizon will journey pass.
I'll read the world, find where
the buttons popped and this vestment
I've worn for so long
began to crease and loosen.
I'll repair my cage, find the
loose hinges for my door to nothing.
I'll recite my poem before the fire,
under the moon in their eyes.
I'll name it a dirge
and the wind will weep with me.
I'll paint a doorknob with my fingers
dipped in the humus of my skin. I'll find
a river beneath this hue of sand.
The river will gird my bones and
each joint will be a volcano
ready to explode.
I'll call this prayer.
I'll find escape.
Before the open door I'll sit
and beg God for silence.
The thunder in my chest will
come for me.
It will be late for you to do
a thing. I'll pick my cane and
walk back into the shadows, away from
the moon in your eyes and the fire.
You will call it a legend but
I'll be beneath the rock,
on the ledge, a broken thing,
waiting for something to happen to me.
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