Closed Door

In my head is a closed door—

It shut the day you died.

No longer opened by

a gentle knock, an unimpeded push inside

to encounter you

drinking mate at the table

a sideways grin, knitting needles

tapping out the rhythm

of your breath,

of the gold fleck in your eye.

In my dreams sometimes,

I visit you, lay my head upon your table,

snow falling outside

a black border collie exhausted at your feet.

But then I awaken and the door slams shut,

Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?

You fade like steam.

All that remains is the yerba mate gourd,

bitter leaves still damp,

a ball of raw wool

rolls under the table.

8 thoughts on “Closed Door”

  1. Carrie, I so hear your voice in your writing. This is another lovely, heart-wrought piece. I sense your grief, and feel empathy. Thank you for sharing, yet again.


  2. Ah Carrie, such a sad and lovely poem. The last image: the ball of raw wool that rolls away, leaves my heart heavy. Thank you for sharing your words that hold sorrow for us all.


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