a very narrow set of stairs

​

​

I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Ford

and her two front doors

 

the way her need for escape 

became inescapable

 

my doors, too numerous in dreams, 

swing inward, the record groaning 

 

in reverse, crystal doorknobs 

a rattling chorus of snakes

 

we pray at the altar of one 

changed detail, pray to emerge

 

without that fingernail of fear 

pressed deep in amygdala clay

 

the needle stutters over this groove again and again

 

on the bus this morning a man talks

to his wife on the phone about sod

 

the relative merits of having or not having 

grass at its full height in front of their door

 

maybe she needs this too, wields her 

own sandpaper against the unspeakable

 

no more naked dirt for her back to press against

no rock to catch the lip of a flip flop in flight,

 

just the grass green enough on the other side of the door

for each blade to whisper: it cannot happen here