The Guest Room Symphony
I was never afraid to
Tell the story of the panic doors.
It once began while I shimmied my
Way up a lattice and
Into the guest room.
I felt like a child on the
Verge of an egocentric breakdown.
Full to the brim with euphoria.
Vibrant and agile and overwhelmed.
I could hear her shifting pots on the
Burners down stairs.
I could hear him breathing fast.
I swear to this day I could hear
His heart beat from that windowsill.
When I slid my way under the glass
It caught my skin and tore the flesh.
I didn't feel it until he forced his thumb
Through the rupture in the scarlet abrasion.
I watched as a plum colored stream slid
Down the underpass of
My hips and his fingertips.
A plum colored stream
In sexed up heat
With the breaks of
The dishwasher latch clicking.
A green light at the docks end
Showed worries puddled up
And wetting an open wound.
I felt as eager as a child,
Snipping the ends of dusky hair
At midnight as
My mother wondered beneath her sheets.
I let a few sighs and groans
Seep though the guest room
And down the stairway
Where an indebted woman
Tiptoed, curiously.
Then the creak of the panic doors.
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