Last year I stored the Atlantic ocean
behind it, stuffed it into every corner.
I only just managed to close the latch.
If opened, the room will fill with brine,
the house as well, the streets of this
sea-level town all submerged and we will
sink down to rest on the carpet below.
I probably wouldn’t open that door either.
for you will see a short corridor, leading
to another door, which leads to a short
corridor, leading to yet another door-
you get my point. After weeks you may
turn back, to be faced with the same
endless recursion of impossible doors.
That’s where I store my collection of
nebulae and black holes, that one there
leads straight to the hurricane hangar.
Only the last one is out of bounds,
the wooden door a foot high, there
above the skirting board in the corner.
I keep the key around my neck on a chain.
It’s alarmed, but you wouldn’t know it.
That’s where I keep my worries. Inside,
a cupboard of ink-stained shadows,
paper torn into confetti, a whistling,
quiet and high, with no visible origin.
Prompt became the opening line- “I wouldn’t open that door if I were you” from Apples and Snakes