Behind Open Doors

Behind Open Doors

Based on the Cuban series by photographer David Creedon.

A photograph.
Adjoining rooms.
Breath stalls against Havana-blue walls,
a thump in my throat paces inwards.
Facing partition has tall arched domes,
one closed with lacy white doors
the other is open invitation.
I sidestepped the request,
not ready for the collision—that intimate clash
between probe and emotion.
I feel like temporary family
brought in off the streets of Catalina De Guines
to share a common heave.
A woven bullfight spans the panels
separating the twin porticos, beneath the weave
a squat wooden stand breaks the sparseness,
scattered pictures claim heritage,
oxygen cylinder static in a corner
understates its rank.
My eyes have grown into this space.
Despite the divide of landmass and continents
I have been here,
confined in love and duty.

Open archway insists.
There is no small-talk,
no mimicking of beauty,
just numb routine.

Propped on an iron bedstead
(half-positioned within the doorframe)
aged man/ shoulders bare/
exposure is from the chest up/
grey head is turned towards the lens
as though each shutter click
will justify his being.
From his bed he is able to observe life
fed by an outer room
with its implications hinged on need.

Filtered light angles across mosaic floors
to track the subtle sheen of dependency—
the slippage/
the tedium/
the care.