saturday night

There really was a stuck door, with an old wooden frame that swelled with the weather and I'm sure had many other tiny imperfections adding up to its unwillingness to open. But I was also young (college or maybe a little after) when I first wrote this poem, and am sure I was angry at some recent disappointment that seemed oppressive and inescapable at the time. One of the greatest things I've learned over the years is that there is always a way if you really want one. Warning: contains some "bad" words.

photo from morgueFile by taliesin

saturday night

this fucking door is stuck again.
always after i've made up my mind
to leave
a thief
hands full
car packed
of nothing i wouldn't keep behind
if only this fucking door would open.

a lifetime ago
out the back door-
screen only in summer,
squeaked slightly
and that was it.
fewer visits each year
solitude,
another lifetime gone,
a long stretch of elastic
til i couldn't feel my legs
when i walked,
each time a little faster.

still stalked
by the phone on its base
and this fucking door
with freshly oiled hinges
good locks and a chain-
security
that makes me frightened
only when i'm in it,
in the middle of rolling plains,
gold that folds in a great sigh
reaching, begging the wind
to blow a little harder
pull, a little harder.

if only i had the guts
to suck it in
and kick the panes
apart
crawl out,
but that would leave too much evidence
and questions.

it wasn't locked they would say
not knowing how hard i tried
to open it properly,
glue on my fingers for grip
that ripped the skin in
one strained moment.
this door hates me more
but now has to live with me, a part
always attached to its brashness.

fuck you door!
i'm getting out!
my whole body thrown
in one torrent storm,
that will do,


yes,


here i go-





(they found me on the fucking floor)


©Erin Croley

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