It began with a locked door, shard 
of shifting light sifting beneath it. 
I couldn’t turn the knob, but heard 
loud knocking on the other side, 
the sobbing of strangers struggling 
to get in, or out. Something 
was burning, and I was grateful 
for the barrier between us, 
yet couldn’t help but ask if 
the door itself was dangerous, 
the lock that kept us all apart. 
                        

After a sculpture, “Untitled, hand fan,” 
by Maggy Jaszczak

Toss a pebble in the still pond, and watch
the spot swell and spread, becoming 
the petals of a sunflower, wide eye 
edged with lashes curling at the tip. 
That’s what happens each time 
you open a book, the world growing 
larger with each page, silent ciphers 
sprouting cities and roads, and finally, 
a Ferris wheel, sending its iron tendrils 
into the air, where you sit, slowly swaying 
in your seat, looking out on the new-made world.

When I saw the storm clouds massing on the horizon 
of my father’s brow, I’d take the hint and disappear 
into the back seat of the car. Somehow, no one ever 
found me there. They’d call and call, but I’d ignore 
them, as the cat pays me no heed when he creeps 
into the closet for a nap. I’d take a stack of books, 
fresh from the library, put them to my nose 
to breathe the kindergarten scent of paste mixed 
with the stuffy air of the back seat. Occasionally, 
I’d find a popcorn kernel in the cushions, left over 
from the last time I’d been here. I tried for hours 
to resist the pressure of my bladder, tempting 
me to go into the house. Neither of my parents 
ever guessed where I was hiding, or perhaps 
they did, but never let on that they knew, 
just let me think I was invisible, which is 
a blessing and a curse, protective camouflage 
when one most needs it, but a habit hard 
to break. I miss the feeling of utter safety 
in my secret sanctuary, hiding out with books, 
delving, like a bee, into each sweet blossom.