by DBLevin

Water runs beneath the doorjamb.
The welcome mat floats away,
and slowly disintegrates into wool and wicker.
The letters and postcards dam up the doorway,
blue ink outlines the currents,
words resurface —

my name, then

I can’t see                              life before                         here

I’ve grown so much                                       here

I have to be



The wallpaper peels,
ceiling paint crawls away
the broken beams beneath revealed.
Water rises through the floorboards,
all the doors slam open,
then quietly sway.
The drain regurgitates.

The bedspread floats from me.
I can’t sleep when I can see
into the hallway.

I wade into your kitchen,
pick up your letter again,
feel my midsection twist
at the empty page
and at my ink-stained fingertips

I leave blue prints on the door
as the currents carry me away