Myth goes there are seven doors out, only then
escape without return.
Mine of course was Churchill, sleeping with one arm
still tied to the bedpost
a draft on my face
a man at my legs,
while my true love lay alone on Grove Avenue
wondering where I'd got to.
Digging his own way out with broken spoons.
Yours, then,
was the final door- easiest door-
the needle that bruised the skin,
the bubble to blood
the rise to unbroken flight.
My fingers grip your ankle,
release the man.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Phew. Intense. Lovely. Amazing images. Amazing ending. The door metaphor is very powerful. Just great.
ReplyDeleteHot Damn! I taste grit, sweat and honey. Mmm,mmm, yum!
ReplyDeleteEpic poem. Thanks for posting. It's like a movie that's really dark and you can't really get all the details at once, but you are affected and pulled in emotionally anyways.
ReplyDelete