"Haunt the door"  
by Christine Robbins 
“The duende … won’t appear if he can’t see the possibility of death, if he doesn’t know he can 
haunt death’s house…”                  
                           - Federico Garcia Lorca 
         
                        I hear the slide
                        Of a shotgun
                        Racking in my mind.

                                                            Mud spreads in the rain,
                                                            Spreads along the path.
                                                            Rain pools

                        Among the stones.
                        The creek
                        Continues to rise.

                                                            I’ve fired a gun
                                                            A few times. The bullet
                                                            Cut a line in the air – I tore

                        The skin of the sky.
                        My house was built
                        By a flooding creek and the water

                                                            Continues to rise.
                                                            I’d enter
                                                            The past with a gun.

                        I’m afraid of a force
                        That sheds so much sound.

                                                            A woman
                                                            Slept by her window
                                                            And a stranger came inside.

                        May she curl
                        In the snail of her mind.
                        Another stranger, I

                                                            Would offer her my dark,
                                                            May she wrap herself inside.
                                                            I hear
                                                            Angels drive her in light.

                        Crumbs on the table,
                        Weeds through the stone,
                        Landscape

                                                            Eroding in water.
                                                            The door is glass.
                                                            And my room is mostly glass.

                        And I’m afraid of a watcher
                        Behind the parted shades.
                        I’m afraid

                                                            And a gun’s in my mind.
                                                            I’d enter
                                                            Her past with a gun.

                        The steps leading down
                        To the bay are under water.
                        Wet as what’s hidden

                                                            In the living.
                                                            No separate rooms
                                                            For the ones who go easy.
                        It’s the angels
                        Who drive you in light.

                                                            They did not find
                                                            The poet’s body. And they did
                                                            Not find. I’d enter
                                                            His past –

                        The door is glass.
                        Come in. And the room
                        Is mostly glass.

                                                            And I’m afraid
                                                            I’m becoming
                                                            The haunter.               
                        
                        Crumbs on the table, weeds
                        Through the stone, landscape
                        Eroding in water.

                                                            Mollusk mind –
                                                            I slid its eyeless face
                                                            Inside. I, too,

                        Have come to eat.
                        I’ve cut and been cut
                        To my need.

                                                            Find the children,
                                                            Bring them inside.
                                                            They’re gone

                        But their names are the words
                        I still whisper.

                                                            If I offer you my fear,
                                                            I fear you’ll cut me down, oh,
                                                            Nothing
                                                            Out there in the rain.
                        I cannot haunt
                        The house entire, I’ll try
                        The space between.

                                                            Dirt on the glass and it streams.
                                                            Glass obscuring
                                                            A darkening sky.

                        If I wake in the night,
                        I won’t approach
                        The bathroom sink.

                                                            I have no need
                                                            For someone else’s well.
                                                            I’m afraid of the window

                        Reflected in the mirror’s glass.
                        Afraid
                        Of my own face rising
                        And the blank eye

                                                            Watching from behind.
                                                            When I am the ghost,
                                                            I’ll take absence for me.

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