Sanctuary

By Sydney L. Wensel

Your forceful knocks thunder through my house—

You’re tired of pushing abacus beads,

Tired of keeping score— how many days it’s been, 

But scared to reach “I’ve lost count”.

The tally is bleak, and the regret is wearing you thin— 

Making a pitiful meal of you. 

Your hope gnaws on what remains in the silence—

When I don’t come running, 

Sliding on the hardwood, and throwing the door open, 

Panting— hair and habit unruly, leaning 

Like abstract art in the frame. 

Only your shadow and shame join you

On my wraparound porch, 

With a week-old newspaper. I don’t need 

To read more about the ending of the world.

Like an odd mirror— another thing, desperate,

Trying to survive in unpleasant and delicate circumstances,

A spider has made its web 

In my front door peephole— 

Partially obstructing it— we, 

Both in the dark of our own worlds…

Keep treading water by spinning our own threads,

Living in the stories we need to tell ourselves—

The imagined safety of our tight spots 

And hidden grooves.

No one can get us here— no one can see through.

By Sydney L. Wensel