The Screen Door

by on December 13, 2023 :: 0 comments

The sound of
fists on wood, a warning
fists on face, a fight
The tide, I’ve only seen on TV, finds its way through the crack under the door, water covering the mottled rug-green moss-finally it belongs.

Once the room is full,
the sounds are silent.
The scratchy Holly Hobby gown is heavy, stuck to my thighs. The bloated Raggedy Ann in my hand, an anchor.

The crusty sheet hanging over the window softens, becomes a sunken sail, a soft surrender, a cloud for cover.

The rotten mattress, a raft and

me, a huckleberry– a friend who knows how to stay cuz I been through worse.

But, I should be swimming to an opening, forcing my way out- the survivor that I am.
But it’s so quiet between the knocks.
Before she answers.
Before he presses her between the screen and the door.
(a mesh coffin, yet still no room to breathe.)
Before she wails.
Before she kicks it open.
Before she fights back.

Inside, I’m awake, but I’m dreaming I’m underwater.

– Tamitha Curiel

editors note:

Sadly, some swim sooner. – mh clay

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