Door

I’m your Labrador, fetching you the bones of sunlight

and pale days. Or think of me as your butler, a little

wooden, rather stout: my hinged blink sanctions

all your ins and outs. Believe me, I’ve watched you,

learned the rhythm of your ways. Janus-faced, I’m

the ship that carves your passage to those elsewheres,

to that other place. And don’t forget, it’s muggins here

that guards and grants your view to all the seedy

goings-on at number thirty two. By day, I keep

out all your riff-raff: Mormons, double-glazing salesmen,

storms. At night, I hold your TV dinners, chitter-chatter,

warmth. Touch me. My handle is a clasp into

the locket of your life. With a bit of luck, through me

you’ll ferry a pink-cheeked, newly-minted wife. A little

more, and I’ll make myself a shrine to bless the grizzling

newborn you’ll bear in so gently from the car.

Know this: on that drizzly Tuesday morning far from now,

it’s me will mark your vigil. Yes — I’ll be your mother

too. When men in dark suits come to do the business,

I’ll push myself open as they carry you through.

By Kathryn Bevis