The Door – Vandal Poem of the Day

If I am not perfect, everything falls apart. I steady

my epileptic son, pull the handle

of the front door. Stuck. Nowhere to go. Last night

I held Grace. Entered her. Are you ready for another child?

she asked. It could help us. Winter rain arrived, the night

damp and cold. We slept together for the first time

this week. Would the new child be normal? Protect or resent

Brendan? Marriage is our son, marriage is shutting him out.

Turning my back, I kneel down, free the mat under the door. I am

trying to get us somewhere. It slants open, a sliver

of light. My pulse quickens—where did

Brendan go? A crash behind me. His screams. I run

to find him—on the ground, his head bleeding. What

are you doing? I yell at him, at myself. Calm down

Grace says, It’s not his fault. We are closed in. She holds

him tight. I reach a threshold, pull him back

to me. Could I have been there? She touches

my wrist. Can Grace and I get back

to us? I sleep alone, in the room next to his. Listening.

The strum of blinds. He’ll stand up. Sway on his bed. I’ll rush

in. Rain sweeps leaves from gutters. More nights

apart. Grace’s warmth beyond reach. Her words to me

when he stopped crying, I’m close to wanting

another. My face against her hair, its apple scent,

my words shutting her out. Not quite yet. I am trying

to stay open.