David Penn
Threshold
At the door I catch myself in your startled look:
hands on my hips, in fists,
brows angled to a tip, two foils.
That voice, that echo of a shout
is my voice now.
You hurry down the staircase
to the street, without a protest -
just the question mark
you couldn’t help but leave me in your face.
I turn directly to the kitchenette,
avoid the mirrors,
hurl away a fork.
Then I remember other scenes like this -
the dark man standing in the doorway,
jagging finger,
face a prow for battering with,
mouth a barrel firing blind,
as a woman backs away.
In her face every hope has gone.
He slams the door and burns in his room
alone.
I spin to the phone.
Page(s) 66
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