The Door
By Georgina Yael Johnson
your father couldn't stand it,
the family door slammed on his face;
he put his hand, knowing pain would
scream mercy door-jammed violence;
but mercy left him child-less that day
ushering herself to darkened rooms
forbidden to his drunken show,
telling that bad guy's gone
bad guy, your father.
Who
slams
the
door
now?
Loving, curse-struck we collapsed to understand how greatest love is lawed by infinite blend, allowing now but
a softer form of cruelty for weaning of forgiven truth - so growth-thwarted men can suffer to find the lawful lines
where they begin and where they end..
Would rape pay your way
to holy places, guided by
your breath of curses?
Could fields of force
-your soul in space-
be frayed by blaming
treat-seeking hands?
No. You clawed the rose-pink
light and your hands passed ghostly.
Violence Impotent
Entry Forbidden
Who can cleanse scarlet leaks dripping through morning skies? Who heals the wandering of your eyes?
Who will take your buried hand? Who (if not you) can brave the damaged earth when it's time to land?