Holes left in open doors

First published by honeyfire literary magazine.

I think of his fists. Swallowing air

and silent goodbyes; 

tiny screams of forgiveness.

 

I think of how soft they first appeared –

builder’s hands which knew when to crumble –

until I remember the holes in the doors,

splintered plasterboard left changed

by furious winds; a sullen face. 

 

I think of his fists. 

A hand at your shirt collar

and the crash of plates; 

glass spitting down a dimly lit hallway.

 

Too much – too many memories –

for a heart not yet the size of a fist.

 

I think of his fists. 

Contracting, breathing

like memory foam, 

like ripples in the shifting sands

beneath my velcro-shoed feet.

5 thoughts on “Holes left in open doors

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