I should not be here

for Meg Finney

ADITI MACHADO

Light whiskers through the keyhole.

On the other side there is a woman,

reading, her hair feather-fine,

or an old general, graying like a stone.

Maybe it is a young boy;

he flies a kite or collects bones.

 

I almost blind my eye

when I look through. It is the woman—

I was right; her solitude is cat-like.

Now she lifts a paw and licks it,

rests it down as if it were a hand,

watches the small spot of saliva,

and wonders why

I do not enter.

 

On the other side, something howls

mutely. I feel the door, cannot

decide if it’s leather or plain old

hardback.