"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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