Storm Door Blues

Storm Door Blues

The sliding glass door to your soul is shut to me now, wooden stick in the guide rails, black-out curtain drawn. The storm door to my soul hangs crooked from the pull of gravity and last year’s hurricane. When it ripped itself free, I glued the wood back into the frame. Another patch job, putting things back together again, more glue than wood. Waited twenty-four hours and screwed the hinge in place. The open gap at the top is now large enough to pass my finger or tongue through. I could run either along the entire edge. Which instrument provides the precise measurement for loss? What do you do with an open slit in your soul? Do you poke at it with a finger, a “told you so,” or do you caress it gently with your tongue, pain also deserves love.