The Closet

From the slightly open door, a stripe of light
slashes through the tangled undergrowth
and crawls across my face like a yellow slug
that glides to moist, wide-pupiled eyes,
only to be washed back down its slimy trail
by the salty streak of tear that waters my cheek.
Leafless sleeves hang like greedy tendrils,
twisting, coiling, waiting to hug
the breath from my constricting throat
while the boa belts crawl towards my waist.
Weathered boots and shoes that lie like crocodiles
with only their empty eyes in view
anticipate the moment when this clothes-basket boat,
weighted by tears, sinks to their black teeth.

A. Popp

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