Doors

My parents’ house became a place of closed white doors,
where sound hung spare and echoes found no junk
or clutter to rest themselves upon. You move
quietly, in a house like that, learn side-feet,
stop-breath, corner-pause, learn to turn
reverberating handles with a burglar’s touch, learn
the geometries of pristine display.
The corners grow
brighter
the doors are closed
until the noise of you
gasps air-lock to air lock, as though
time could freeze, as though time
could pause its flow, be vacuumed up like dust.
I ran away, all proper, all above board,
the kind of running
that looks good
in picture frames hung on the blank white
of my repainted room.
The doors are closed, the carpet pale,
and from that spare and tidy room
the house has grown, has added to itself
more rooms, more closed white doors
as though it needs more space
to keep its ghosts contained.

A W Earl is a writer, storyteller and poet whose work is concerned with gender, deviant bodies, and folklore. Their poetry has featured in Renard Press, Salò Press and The Selkie. Their debut novel was published by Unbound in 2018.