from Old English

Your door, unlike my door, had slim
					                                   full-height glass
	      panes flanking it. Your door went

outside. So maybe
		              a bull crashing through it seemed less
		                             far-fetched

				                            than in an apartment
	    complex, but they both would
have bellyflopped and splintered. You

				                              would have had to
		                 run past the five-faced bow
window. I would have had to jump

					                                          onto the fire
	escape. And it makes sense that a door
			              broken like this would become

				                                fear, that a gasping
horned beast in too little space
				                               would move to pieces

   	      what its muscles could. Behind
			                     these different entrances
				                              though, we learned home,

the high hum of different
			                     blenders blending different
	          textures for our tongues. And we

				                              learned to be afraid of what
		                     we say, of what people
			                        hear, of what comes	

home quieter than hooves
				                                 and huffing. And walking
	over these thresholds we learned

					                                distance, that thin
		              line between cups we hold so
			                     tightly. And we learned to

imagine through it, to make
				                             closeness where we could.
		                                                             Please, let me stop

imagining for just a little while. Let
		             your real hand touch my real
				                            face and our eyes find

	something other than fear or distance
					                                or a door—standing
			or broken. And please, let that

		               moment mean past
itself into other moments that string
				                                off along both of our horizons.

			                    That, right now, I can only wish
	this, deserves that extra
		         r—that older shudder and chill.