The Vestibule Before the Door

Painting by Surrealist Artist Alexandra Dillon

I guess what they wanted was Bluebeard, the lurid and the louche
Where the omens were wicked and the whispers slithering;
Marriage like a scoop for the dirt of life swept up by silk.

They barely look at the vow--don't think I can't see what
I can't say.

And they want strength because they come to me ask for it,
For the courage to Not Open the Door, because he's here,
Already in the house, already telling them the kind of stories
About how power is beautiful and how they like to stand in the ocean
And let the waves hit them, right? Between the legs, right?
That's why there is only the hand, with the vow, and the eye here,
In this not-yet-forbidden vestibule.

Because I liked power, too, didn't I?

You can't say what sacred layers the vow will set its edge against.
You can't say what witness will be borne to how they twist them.

Will you stand there and tell my story? Of pirates and weddings . . .

But the ring was only mine from a line of blindness
And what I swore was that I would never look away;
If I could only wear the comfort, I'd be the honest one.
And I am. Sharp and aware and wedded to the long view,
Lies becoming stories, forgotten but smooth, and power?
It rolls madly over and leaves something shiny behind.
Could be blood. Could be diamonds. Could be you.

So...witness. Speech. Silence. Comfort. The edge of the cliff or the knife or the line. Or the edge of the storm. We're fortunate in that another early hurricane will be missing our city, although it will pass through other damaged cities and flood other previously drowned communities. There is only the exhaustion of catching one's breath, holding it, and then waiting for another wave to come. Sharing with The Sunday Muse and with Poets and Storytellers United and hoping that everyone finds a place to rest and catch their breath in the coming week. 

--  Chrissa