Please don’t open the closet door.
Don’t open the cabinets.
Don’t look under the bed.
There is no past, no future.
The children will wither like rosebuds, slough off their fresh-pale beauty and
frustrated growth and slump down with a malodorous sigh.
Don’t kiss me gently on my neck when I am lying on my side in bed,
tears silently streaming down the side of my face and soaking into my
hair and pillow. I couldn’t stand it.
I hate
to be humiliated.
The wolves are coming. I can hear them howling through the walls,
through the sound of the dead leaves as winter closes in. They come
with their bright eyes and their shining coats and gently lick me, lick me
all over…
They are beguiling, those wolves. But don’t believe them. I don’t lie.
I am the tongueless woman.
I am the thousand flakes that shimmer when the sky decides to come down.
Darling, you could not dare to imitate me.
It would be –
What do they call that thing? –
blasphemy.
Don’t sweep too closely under the oven.
There is a little girl who lives under there, and her eyes, red as
blood, peer out from under, her face charred and her heart restless.
Your love is a shape with no name. No words, and no hair.
My dear husband, Tom, Dick, Harry, and Merv, don’t look into the chest of
drawers. Row on top of row, they open up to release unutterable
horrors. They reveal soiled undergarments, bloody pearls, decayed
roses, abortive fictions, and tears.
Please don’t open the closet door.
Don’t look inside the kitchen cabinets; my little girl lives in there
still, has never lived anywhere else, indeed, with her head in her
hands and flashing eyes and soiled black hair and fingers addicted to
kill.
