Instructions for Opening a Door

by Ian Randall Wilson
Confrontation is always
at issue.  The foot not
a leader, the hand a wagon
to a world on the other
side.  I question my assumptions:
Is Latin like
a tunnel,  Russian speech a car in
flight?  Does a scattered alphabet
vault the sky? Honey,
I'm home becomes
a not so secret
message of my dissipation.
The Beloved once gone
does not look back.

I am prepared to lick
the lintels if it makes it easier to get
inside, to rush past the salt pillars of those
who turned.  I rap
my knuckles three times
on the wood of my raised
panels.  In the year of my isolation
I have forgotten if
I'm leaving or staying—
either way, I'm asking
to come home.

© 2002 by Ian Randall Wilson. All rights reserved.