The Door 

How often I ran streets of stars to the door,

my path pointing keys to that guard, the door.

A boy chased me home shooting arrows. 

My sweater was torn in a war at the door.

Had he dropped his quiver, had I dared pick it up,

would a warrior soul have barred the door?

My chest stored with grief, my room of ice-moons.

Would I have seen galaxy’s arc past the door?

Had I known who I was, had I listened:

the lone parrot’s wings wind-starred at my door?

Who can do that? This clear discernment. Is there no threat? 

Only what comes in the street, jarred by love at the door.

A boy I left outside, crying my name. The boy I’d marry

too young, climbing my window. Scared, I hid at the door.

I slept in my room until Mother’s light opened the night.

Grandfather gone beyond all stars and doors.

My father lost to his armor of bourbon, bars, scandal.

My grandmother disappeared in the car outside my door.

Dead to me, my granddaughter is dead to me.

I hauled fallen leaf-hands, gold stars to my closet door.

Piled them inside. Lay down. Years later I walked.

Searching for my father, one day I climbed stairs to his door.

Did I knock or stand there, thinking of feldspar and radar,

taken by metamorphic rocks, unheard melodies, a door?

My ears pounding with the sound of no answer.

Eyes staring down a constellation of scars in the door.

Heather H Thomas

12.9.24