At the Threshold

You’ve been here before,
in the pocket of anxiety,
the vestibule of distress.

What could you do to get
through the dim corridor
that stretches as if

without end? You are
the only one here again,
in this hallway of echoes.

No mythical bird sits
in the trees, braiding
its songs, biding time,

waiting to drop a load
of constipated pellets
on the head of any

unsuspecting traveler
on the road. No crone
appears to demand

you choose between
two doors— one, a pit
of snakes or horrors;

the other, a clear
path through an orchard
hung with globes of fruit.

Do not wonder about
the cries that bounce
off the walls at night.

They are only the birds
of your own dejection,
bumping blind against

the crowded furniture
in the interior. Remember
that quiet is not always

the sound of sorrow or
abandonment. In the silent
entryway, wait patiently

to hear your voice begin
to speak with its familiar
timbre. And you will cross

the room, take her hands
in yours; embrace her,
tell her she is home.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Funereal.

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