When the neighbourhood was on fire, we had doors
everywhere but nothing to walk through to.
A child held on to a beige-coloured small one
with an idea of heaven on the other side.
An old man a large, brown, shattered door – through the holes, he
said, he could look at all that he had left behind in growing older.
A woman had a door that heard calls and consistent knocks
but there was no-one. Like her brother, she thought of a lost love.
The door near me had learnt to be disturbingly quiet.
In the fashion of doors that lead to attics full of bodies.
There was a tarnished door near the garden where
the trees laughed and were endlessly happy.
And another boy said there was a door he heard
noises on the other side of and was scared.
His sisters said they saw doors with nothing – no one – holding
them set upon fire. And our neighbourhood smelt of silence and ash.