PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He stands at her kitchen door immobile. Does she still live here? Her truck looks as if it hasn't moved in years, the hood up, rear passenger side tire flat. Doubt infects him - maybe it's too late, it feels like an eon has gone by. How many times did he drive past her road unable to turn, then having conquered that cowardice had sat at the head of her driveway until summoning the courage to go so far as the gate, only to meet with a sign hanging there - 'in retreat do not disturb'. He had studied the words, crudely scribbled as if it were a voodoo hex to ward off some evil. But why the preamble 'in retreat'? Because she was too nice a person to simply tell someone to fuck off. 

It's been nearly a decade since she showed up at sweat, newly divorced, which was a shock to everyone but him. She was an open wound that day in the lodge. Violently shaking, sobbing, giving her pain to the earth. Gut-wrenching for him to watch but he knew it was all for the good, this being the proper place for expulsion. No one tried to comfort her or interject, merely witness, humming lowly to cleanse the energies, lest they get trapped in the communal subconscious or worse form shadow entities and attach to some unsuspecting person who happened to be wandering nearby. He held silent vigil in his heart - get it all out my beloved, get it all out so that we may begin sacred & pure.

Today the sign is gone, replaced by feathers and beads hung on strips of red cloth. Still they exude a protective quality, witchy talismans of powerful magic made by one no longer desperate but solidly grounded. He stares at the door painted purple with an elaborate vertical OM styled in reds and pinks. All around the edges were stuck tiny magnetic tiles printed with random words forming charmed phrases, brief bits of poetry, yet laden with ambiance - 'explode fertile thing', 'berry me beneath harsh winter blanket', 'coax song like when she be about to grow', 'blew in him her tender tendril long blue' - intimate pairings that could be arranged by her hand and nobody else's.

An orange tabbycat peers down at him from the juniper tree beside the porch, sniffs his air - have you food? He supposes it to be a good omen and lifts his fist to knock. His eyes fall upon one last verse as the doorknob turns from the other side - 'he fall hard with me only' -  and in that instant he knows she knows.