The Open Doors Poetry Zine
Julia Paul’s poems have appeared in such journals as: RUNES, Connecticut River Review, Common Ground Review, and Caduceus and in anthologies, including the award winning, Lavandaria: An Anthology of Women, Wash and Word. She is an elder law attorney in Manchester, CT and serves on the boards of the CT Poetry Society and Riverwood Poetry Series.
Back Door
I’m the open door at Widow Wickham’s house.
Brick door stop fights my weight.
Evening enters, settles in front of the television
like a husband. The cat follows,
heads for the food dish on the floor
by the fridge, always there first.
The widow shuffles over to me, tosses the brick
into the yard, slams me hard, again.
Night presses against me like a cool, wet washcloth.
My paint is peeling, a hinge
has come loose. My latch is rusted.
I’ll split down the middle, if you pound on me.
I’ve had enough of that.
I hold sorrows that’d warp the sturdiest.
If I could teach you one thing, it would be this:
Be gentle with one another.
I’m the open door at Widow Wickham’s house.
Brick door stop fights my weight.
Evening enters, settles in front of the television
like a husband. The cat follows,
heads for the food dish on the floor
by the fridge, always there first.
The widow shuffles over to me, tosses the brick
into the yard, slams me hard, again.
Night presses against me like a cool, wet washcloth.
My paint is peeling, a hinge
has come loose. My latch is rusted.
I’ll split down the middle, if you pound on me.
I’ve had enough of that.
I hold sorrows that’d warp the sturdiest.
If I could teach you one thing, it would be this:
Be gentle with one another.
Bright Spot
If I lived behind that door
(I’m pointing to the one that’s
faded from red to pink),
I’d be weathered, too.
My days would’ve been spent
tending the gardens.
I’d never have worn a hat.
I’d have let the sun rub my
shoulders as I squatted
between rows of beans and
squash.
My toddlers’ mouths
would’ve been ringed with dirt.
They’d have picked up a cuss
word or two from their father
because the Ford’s broken
down again. That’s his shirt
on the line outside the door.
I’d have hung it myself
in the morning.
I’d have stared at the peeling
pink door and my bright red
house and laughed
remembering how the children
painted it for us before they
moved into town, how they said
they wanted to be able to spot
the house from a mile away.
If I lived behind that door
(I’m pointing to the one that’s
faded from red to pink),
I’d be weathered, too.
My days would’ve been spent
tending the gardens.
I’d never have worn a hat.
I’d have let the sun rub my
shoulders as I squatted
between rows of beans and
squash.
My toddlers’ mouths
would’ve been ringed with dirt.
They’d have picked up a cuss
word or two from their father
because the Ford’s broken
down again. That’s his shirt
on the line outside the door.
I’d have hung it myself
in the morning.
I’d have stared at the peeling
pink door and my bright red
house and laughed
remembering how the children
painted it for us before they
moved into town, how they said
they wanted to be able to spot
the house from a mile away.
Keep Out
You fixate on the brick arch
above the door.
What was it your parents
told you about its keystone?
Make a wish,
when you cross the threshold,
it will be granted.
And you believed that
for almost forever,
like a lot of things
before the shouting matches
curled the wallpaper
and the mildew
of silence sprouted.
You were still a girl
when sheets were thrown
over the furniture
and gravel pinged a farewell
song against the underside
of the Fairlane.
Now wildflowers tiptoe
toward the massive oak door.
The steps are gone.
The posted sign warns:
Danger. Keep Out.
Black-eyed Susans
and Queen Anne’s lace
hover, coy, tilting heads,
like beauty flirting with danger,
like you.
Open Window
If I lived behind the door
with fleur-de-lis
and metal moons that curl
like wet locks on a baby’s scalp, you’d hear music
whenever you passed by.
In the afternoon –
Bach’s Brandenburg
Concerto #3 – Mimi
and Lenora on violin,
Sadie on viola,
Albert on cello.
Music would escape
through a cracked-open
window like a parakeet
from its cage needing
to take flight, to soar and circle.
You’d stop in your tracks.
The music would consume you.
Outside my door,
your heavy burden
would be lifted.
As if you’d tasted ice-cream
or cotton-candy for the first time, you’d raise an eyebrow.
You might even smile.
Roots and Petals
If I lived behind a door
the color of ocean,
not the ragged ocean
that clutches at your ankles
before sinking into sand,
but the green-blue ocean
that fisherman see miles
from shore, the only place
God mixes emerald
and turquoise into one
flawless color,
I would speak French.
Even when I yelled
at my drunken lover,
the names I’d call him
would sound like a caress:
imbecile, trou du cul, un tocard.
Every morning I’d say
bienvenue tout le monde,
welcome to the world,
with a basket of fresh flowers
on my arm. The fragrance
of flowers would make me wild.
Like them, I’d grow
half in sunshine,
half in rotting darkness.
If I lived behind a door
the color of ocean,
not the ragged ocean
that clutches at your ankles
before sinking into sand,
but the green-blue ocean
that fisherman see miles
from shore, the only place
God mixes emerald
and turquoise into one
flawless color,
I would speak French.
Even when I yelled
at my drunken lover,
the names I’d call him
would sound like a caress:
imbecile, trou du cul, un tocard.
Every morning I’d say
bienvenue tout le monde,
welcome to the world,
with a basket of fresh flowers
on my arm. The fragrance
of flowers would make me wild.
Like them, I’d grow
half in sunshine,
half in rotting darkness.
