Member-only story
The Door God Walks Through
And his never entering
My hand is a soft lamp and solace is plain white salt while the dog sleeps. The house is winter. It has nothing to say.
The carpet is speechless, the chair is speechless, unopened books, for now, cannot express themselves. I’m scooched
close to the tv watching baseball. They scored two runs this inning. The beer bottle stands tall, half empty, but I can’t decide
if light lives in the half empty or half full. A lime floats like a raft. I like my hand when, like my thoughts, I can appreciate it. But most often it works
against me. Then Easter is gone and no god has entered the door. The lock is cold with lack of god. The paint is peeled, wood splintered.
I set milestones but suffering is skin. If I don’t wear it someone else will find it, then my suffering will be their suffering. What qualifies
as end? An owl is perched on a shelf filled with squares of love that don’t fit a triangle world. Easter Sunday and god hasn’t walked
through the door. He is more ceiling fan than door and yet he is believable over these styrofoam people. The void is shaped
like a river, rushing with intention, slow with decision, then I am the rock, stuck, having broken another tooth…
