The Burning Door
If a bird has a problem with its whistle,
it has to whistle to fix it.
— Fanny Howe
We slept through the afternoon, while the rain fell hard enough
to flood the streets and knock out the power.
We slept in each other’s arms, and dreamed
the same dreams—of sleeping in each other’s arms
and dreaming. You tell me my eyes sometimes turn blue
at the moment I wake, but by the time I look into
the mirror they’ve turned brown again. There is something larger
than ourselves moving around in the living room now,
larger than ourselves in the kitchen—and I mean
something like our bodies, only wind. Let it go.
Later in the afternoon the rain stops, and evening
hangs in the dripping trees. There are dogs inside those trees
barking, but our windows are closed tight, so we can pretend
not to hear them. We’re in love. If I hid my hands inside you
as though I could comfort you that way, would I know
what I’m really touching, or remember how to play the tunes
we both love to fall asleep to, in the afternoon,
until we seem to disappear? The world is always singing,
that’s just what the world must do to stay intact.
Our bodies move beyond us as dusk falls. Then darkness...
Michael Hettich | Mudlark No. 40 (2010)
Contents | The Burning Door II