I dreamed a door that wouldn’t close —
loose hinges, slippery lock, misaligned.
Backed up against it, wedged a foot to hold it.
Slammed shut, it slivered open
and always something on the other side
to keep out, or let in.
The last door by which my father left;
a slice of apple pie, the fork
where it had dropped
when the artery at his neck
collapsed. Who did my mother call?
Because she didn’t drive, no time,
no permission with seven kids.
I like to say that he wore his hat
and a wool tweed overcoat
the last time I saw him,
but who can trust a nine-year-old’s memory?
Not my older sisters, each with her own version.
And who shut the door
once he was gone?
Asleep that night, was it the first time
I imagined a faulty bolt?
No: a deadbolt
I wouldn’t let engage.
Door i
Seattle poet T. Clear is a founder of Floating Bridge Press and the Easy Speak Seattle. Her work has appeared in many magazines, including Crannog, Poetry Northwest, Sheila-na-Gig, The Rise-Up Review, Red Earth Review, Terrain.org, The Moth and Common Ground Review. She is an Associate Editor at Bracken Magazine.