Purge Surge Bonus - poems

BURNING DOORS

The flames have a papery quality,

curling at their ends,

disappearing like vapor

at the apex of their reach.

We’re burning doors:

bedroom doors, closet doors;

hollow, cheap things that were

replaced with fancy paneled pieces

that gate our privacy,

though nothing needs to be concealed.

The kids are gone; the only personal

effects remaining in their rooms

are ones I want to keep, to create

some magic spell when they discover

forgotten bric-a-brac on a return visit.

The closets hold domestic things:

towels, cleaning supplies, light-bulbs.

We could dismantle the new doors, burn them, too,

and leave the shelves revealed

for all to see.

There’s nothing hidden now

in this house; just a cock

and his hen living among the sticks

left behind.