where the door of life is left open for a moment

 

 

 

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The story is written, the slip of a girl is loosed

And her life folds over. Against the cold, the waiting

For the what will happen. The next. Wonderful

Awful. The blonde in a chemical bath.

The story keeps on being written

As a woman who waits for never to happen

As an empty wall waits for light to form a bridge

And under it, a mass of open eyes,

Waiting for the awful eventual. Now?

And yes is what is said. Then here it is, the box

We live in where the crazy face of the day looks back

At the closed eye of the night looking in.

A boy of four comes in as an example

Of where the door of life is left open for a moment.

Time tumbles hour after hour until it's morning again.

Some glass is for looking through, some is for seeing back. 

Every outline is a cage one way or another. 

By Mary Jo Bang

image: Maira Kalman