dummy

I expect a good death. If I get it,
love will hold the door for me
and I will go in.
It will be my house, my place
of possession, all the space
that I waited on.
I won’t be afraid.

I’ll walk through my
house and try each door,
grasping it and slamming it,
the fit and the jamb
designed. And where the rooms go
as if for the last time.

That’s when your heart will break–
little basket, little stopped-up
barrel of wheat. You who without a door
1000 different locks will click
shut forever.