Friday, July 22, 2011


A lot has been said about distance,
But what about doorknobs? Rarely
Do their weight and girth beg one
For scrutiny. Let’s turn one over now,
See its gears, knots, screws and spindles,
See what we can make of its anatomy.
Study it, shun the memory of departure
In a corner. Or somewhere hard to reach.
Leave room for these common complaints:

This should turn the other way.
This locks itself twice already.
The key gets stuck.

As infants, we know how close-
Open works, our small palms blooming
And unblooming to the chants of tireless
Mothers, yet now we wait for a doorknob
To turn, the hinges of doors to swing wide
In welcoming angles. On the other side,
The dusts on the mats remain unmoving,
Like something fragile is left for granted.
Somehow, we ignore our own deductions:

There was not much space here.
The air was dense around us.
This was too tight.

But whatever mechanism
These knobs hold within,
How their turns mimic the calls
Of seconds that have passed,
Take a couple of steps back.
We can never be too sure
Of the promise of a doorknob’s
Clicking. Stay away from it
And lean next to the windows.

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