The hallway to your father’s closet lengthens
like the hallway in a horror flick, and already
breathless at the threshold, you inhale the musky-
raw smells of tweed and leather that will settle
in your hair, so hours later you will think
of the closet, of the photos in the magazines
hidden on his sweater shelf—of the lighting
in these pictures, orangey-pink, suggesting flesh
and places deep inside the body that you
have not yet found. The women—spreading wide,
splaying endless legs across the page
like fleshy insects, turning themselves inside out,
bodies spilling like secrets—compel you
to flip to less distressing images of breasts
and hands, flicking tongues. You skim their interests:
Vanessa likes kung fu. Brandi studies
the stars. You want eyes that prowl like that, dreams
worthy of print, and lingerie that serves no purpose
but to accentuate the perfect nakedness
you still believe all girls grow into— Now
space closes in around you—breath quickens—
fingers frantic— undoing—undone—verging on—
in your father’s closet time suspends itself,
extends beyond the shut door, promising escape.
The women do not see you, just as you
do not see them, do not see yourself: your eyes
are closed. You disappear behind your father’s
flannel suits, and when you emerge from the closet,
flushed and reeling, no one has noticed you
were gone; the world remains unchanged, though lingering
on the tip of your tongue, a word taking shape
like the answer to a question no one has asked you yet.
Elizabeth,
This is a wonderful poem.
It takes the reader right into the closet with you,
and makes him young as you were.
Good job.
Thank you!
BRAVO! I love this. It left me breathless!
“Fleshy insects. . . ” AMAZING!
Please don’t look into MY closet!
Ha! Thanks for reading.
This is great.
I love this poem.
Fantastic and wonderfully timed with April being Poetry month! Thanks for this.