Ripple

My room is calmness. Here, in the haze of morning
contours take shape, in this gray year that slowly
lets go. My short fingers caress the frayed hems
of worn-out days.

The hallway, an in-between world that connects
and cuts off. Door to the outside bustle like a knife
at my throat. I am a virus that roams across
windswept squares without corners.

Feverishly, I chase myself over the thresholds of houses
where pain has no designated place, get lost in junk drawers
between cables and keys that don’t fit anything.
Locks like open wounds.

Sometimes my tongue can’t find its way to words.

Back outside, I expand. Open up like the beaches
I fear. Water that comes and never really  
goes. Waves I can dance with when the rhythm
finds my tired legs.

Time leaves shadows on open seas.

(c) Leen Raats

This poem was shortlisted for the DarkWinter Lit 4th Anniversary Contest.