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CB Follett

Red Door

A red door sings of winter

and welcome

like sunsets that capture the silhouettes

of sparrows settling.

Brasswork shines against the red

and someone speaks of

Thoreau, the fire

he started and how it nearly

burned those fabled shores

to memory and sandlots.

Given the shade, would you

call it crimson? or maybe

cherry? like the fruits

fought for against rapacious

and determined waxwings

and how along the street of nightmares

this one door draws you

like the lighthouse on the hook

by the harbor of forgetting.

This is the door you chose.

This, the opening into your interior

where secrets struggle

with the engines of your organs

and no one welcomes you

for a light supper. Mother

is gone to dust and Father

evaporated in the 30s. And

nothing here is familiar.

Once a New England summer

was enough, and briny Atlanta

lapped at your ambitions,

seashells broke on your shores,

all their hidden cycles splintered

into sand. But the smell

is inviolate, the salt and tidal

serendipity of your home coast

where you left your youth

sprawled and gasping

at the furled edge of a receding wave

and behind you, somewhere

out of sight, a red door

slams and fades.