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.
Door ii
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.