December 31, 2020
A man says open the fucking door. A man enters
a room and leaves. A second man enters, staggers,
spilling a whiskey, and opens the door for another. He
enters too, stays a while and puts a cigarette out on
the couch. a drunk slip. They leave, swinging open
the door, which well-oiled, stays ajar in quiet
The door stays that way. And no one enters again
that night. And you are the door, you know it! You
swear you aren’t though. That the door isn’t. You swear
the door can shut and close at will. That you have people
over all the time. That you love the people you have
over. They are the door! They swing in and out, dancing!
We dance with the door all night. We don’t want to pay
to the door.
A woman shuts all the doors in her house. She locks each one
and never forgets. She remembers them dancing
and hides. She forgets the mens’ faces that had touched them.
She eats what is left in the fridge and waits.
She unlocks the door for that. She parts the door.
And takes a bite
Jenna Richard (she/her) is a queer poet, fashion designer and plant-based chef from Peabody, Massachusetts.
Viscous Verses is edited by Raquel Balboni & Ben Mazer www.artandlettersmagazine.squarespace.com
Check out all the art and columns of December's Boston Compass at www.issuu.com/bostoncccompass