Openings

 

i unlock the door

to my house of words. new ones

have been waiting to move in.

 

they inspect the rooms, suggest

a thorough window cleaning.

 

i hang a broken mirror, damaged

in transit, over the fireplace mantel.

they see me reflected:

victim, bully, survivor, noticing also

the missing pieces.

 

i apologize for the cobwebs

and mold, ceiling stains and cracked

plaster: “this is all I could afford.”

 

they discover the attic hatch and

ladder leading to a rafter space

where filled unlabeled boxes remain.

 

but what excites them is the brass

handled trapdoor outlined in the

floor, a place to hunker and survive,

or a dungeon.