Door ii

A way in, a way out.
Sometimes the way through
in spite of the deadbolt.
 
There was the time the glass shattered
as the wife was thrown against it.
The infant, still so much a part of her flesh —
shielded in her arms.
The soft swirl of hair on his fontanel 
like the smallest of feathers. 
A miracle of no blood.
 
Then the door was plywood
nailed in a hurry to keep out
the winter rain. Until the next day
when the glassman came
with his single pane 
and putty, like a band-aid
that never quite covers the gash.
 
What the door kept in
the wife kept secret.
 
Outside the door,
a border of thorns,
black-spotted roses
that died back
below their graft 
to bloom a sorry petal 
minus scent.
 
From the street: 
an ordinary door.
A glass panel. 
Someone behind a curtain.

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