In the shape of the torn screen door anyone can create their own icons.
I see a man scowling with his eyes while welcoming me with outstretched
hands.
He's as seperate from me as a lemon hanging in front of a yellow wall.
Once through the door I am drawn at once to the foot of a musty abandoned
bed.
Inside this concrete cell of a room I shiver.
The chill of midnight in November permeates.
A small box, perhaps of adobe, sits alone on the bare floor.
I pry it open cringing as my nails scrape into the dusty red sides.
Inside this room squats dark and heavy air.
Before my eyes the fug creeps into the box.
Is what I see the key to all I will ever want to know?
The Western world would laugh to hear me utter these words.
So might the Eastern.
All I know is that in this coldness of twelve in the morning
the interior of the box has captured my heart.
and made its home in my belly.
©CopyrightMaki Parsons