I approached in normal apprehension,
half steps on second thoughts,
resolved in opening from the inside.


She had turned the key on herself, but left it
hanging loosely from the hole where
I poked it through with my copy,
hoping she could breathe.

Its weight rang against the dry wood floor;
tuning itself in quieting successions
until the springs of her bed creeked curiously awake.

She was risen
I was certain.


(I imagined her vision
guided through the light of its absence,
fingers hanging off the doorknob,
legs folded closely to her curving spine

A turning glisten through the hole
as the moon in her eye was blinded by
her iris blooming into a sunflower.)


She would stand briefly tall
then fall to her bed,
springs pressed on by winter blankets
where she would lie until The Sun next shone
on her roses and carnations.

09/05/2004

Posted on 09/05/2004
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen