White Doors My grandmother told me this story: On her wedding night, after the consummation, she awakes to a rushing sound through the house, every door flying open. She looks at my grandfather sleeping like the dead and wants to kill him, the bastard. She gets up and walks through the house, through the white doors -- opened by whom? She takes a knife from the drawer, puts it back, hesitates. Blood stains her thighs, bruises bloom. Someone stares at her from a dark mirror, waits. Then my grandmother slowly closes each door, returns to that narrow bed. Tricia Marcella Cimera This poem was written as part of the Ekphrastic Halloween surprise challenge. Tricia Marcella Cimera will forever be an obsessed reader and lover of words. Look for her work in these diverse places: Buddhist Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Foliate Oak, Fox Adoption, Hedgerow, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Mad Swirl, Silver Birch Press, Stepping Stones, Yellow Chair Review, and elsewhere. She has a micro collection of water-themed poems called THE SEA AND A RIVER on the Origami Poems Project website. Tricia believes there’s no place like her own backyard and has traveled the world (including Graceland). She lives with her husband and family of animals in Illinois / in a town called St. Charles / by a river named Fox.
1 Comment
10/28/2017 06:01:51 am
Well done! Just wish I hadn't read it right before bed.
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May 2025
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