I was to knock on his door —
whenever I wanted.
He offered
no limits,
it sounded so
easy.
Even as the shades
of fright
tip-felt the light
and the unknown corridor soft-stretched,
arch-beamed.
But confusion curled —
tiny my hands,
for two dark-clasping weeks.
Child
fretting fingers hid
the woman
deft-placed layers of doubt:
that had strangled firm-quiet
avenues of shout.
I couldn’t get the knock right.
Either as a child or woman,
neither seemed right,
and trembling,
both
hands
blacked delicate the corners,
and the days
tip-toed
past,
Till
eventually,
connecting knuckle to wood
I opened the
door on
seemingly
ever separate needs.
Round soaking the sun they
playfully fused white into one,
as his gestures of pleasure unwrapped a smile,
road-leading to tumbles of fun.
Traced
delicate, the touches of
home.
