Rock art by Tim Christensen
Front Door, at the Old Place
Was it too much to hope for a handle
that wouldn't fall apart in my hands?
It dismantled at a touch, like an old gun
broken well past either of our expertise,
the little pieces falling on the doorstep
like clattering teeth
in a bad dream.
The umbrella bent and creaking, half-broken already.
Your shoulder pushing the front door in
and the neighbors still screaming at each other,
so I can imagine the ways we would ruin our lives even better.
But that's for later.
Right now, it's the two of us and the enduring weather,
the kind of heavy you feel in the air, in your ears.
You lock the door, head up the stairs and strip me
out of clothes too rain-soaked to get back into.
The rain hammers the window like a time traveler trying to get in.
A future me, embracing the paradox,
the impending black-hole death
that would come from trying to warn me out of there.
