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radiantfractureAs if haunted by the worst fear,
you open doors and doors,
sinking into the deep house, its calm
featureless hallways, seeking
the perfect empty room.
You are fleeing from the rustling
bright mothwinged creature
at your back.
Despite your skin
electric with alarm,
I regret to inform you
the wings are attached.
It is true that joy is a way of being lost
in the open. It is a monster
to the carefully cached heart.
Yet here is the sky still,
burning open all the eyes of the house:
one too many doors
and it is yours.
+ + + + + +
I got Mendoza's poem "Harbinger" as a prompt in my inbox today (see next post!). Her poem made me think about my own dreams of exploring houses and interior spaces. These are joyful dreams, not like in this poem. But they also maybe are about turning to the interior when the exterior seems fearful.
Possibly this poem is a little too sentimental, but it is hard for me to claim joy. I could use all the help I can get.
§rf§
you open doors and doors,
sinking into the deep house, its calm
featureless hallways, seeking
the perfect empty room.
You are fleeing from the rustling
bright mothwinged creature
at your back.
Despite your skin
electric with alarm,
I regret to inform you
the wings are attached.
It is true that joy is a way of being lost
in the open. It is a monster
to the carefully cached heart.
Yet here is the sky still,
burning open all the eyes of the house:
one too many doors
and it is yours.
+ + + + + +
I got Mendoza's poem "Harbinger" as a prompt in my inbox today (see next post!). Her poem made me think about my own dreams of exploring houses and interior spaces. These are joyful dreams, not like in this poem. But they also maybe are about turning to the interior when the exterior seems fearful.
Possibly this poem is a little too sentimental, but it is hard for me to claim joy. I could use all the help I can get.
§rf§
