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A quarterly international literary journal

The Door and I

/ Poetry /

I unlock the door.

I open the door.

I step through space

where the door existed.

I close the door behind me.

Where am I in this metaphor?

On my way to work? What job?

On stage? The backdrops

look so genuine I could faint

in the heat of painted light.

Nowhere? Travelling

from one state of being

to the next? I’m lost

in possibilities.

But the door is a real door

in a real wall

with something real

on either side.

Maybe I’m stepping arrogantly

from climate-controlled

comfort zone into nature,

or maybe from one

room to another, one

dull past to an active future.

I don’t have answers.

I’m holding the door open

for someone, anyone at all,

to walk through me.


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