There’s
a knock at the door, where a bottle spins, to
designate
a turn. I grip a knob and churn; but no one’s
there.
Angels sing of sorrow
quasi-souls
lurking
near a front porch. There’s luxury—our pain.
There’s
a knock at the door, where a lion pants, to
jot
a soul. I turn a knob to see a face bruised and
swollen.
It’s mother. “Where were you,” I ask. “I was
hell-bound,”
she says…“and where were you? […]
somewhat
tired…grieving purgatory….” “I was here
right
there washing dishes.”
There’s
a knock in my head. Mother sings there, ever
so
worried about duties. “I know for prayer,” she says.
Her
countenance hagridden, hands sandpaper, fresh
from
purgatory. “I know you do, Ma.”
With
adrenaline racing, alchemy occurs. She rises as a
light,
a contour chiseled—beaming through a rainbow.
Her
cigarette drops; a witness saw crimson snow; a
child
awoke to a knock at the door.
