Doorways

by Eric Machan Howd

Not all doors open in the same direction and with the same effort.
—Jasleen Kaur Gumber

In Rome
impossibly large doors
almost touch the clouds
each adorned with ornate
knockers fashioned by hands
long lost to the seven hills.

My father was as imposing
wrought by his time
from some dark metal
and twisted into shape
while red hot for striking.

As I glimpse the mouth
of my grave his image tarnishes
as does the brutal way he tried
to forge me into his manhood.

The vestibule of the Basilica
of Santa Maria Maggiore
is big enough for God to pass
through. It takes a thousand hands
to open and still I cannot enter
by myself without fearing his face
in every contorted gargoyle silenced
by a solid cast hoop stuck in its mouth.

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Eric Machan Howd (Ithaca, NY) is a poet, musician, and educator. His work has been seen in such publications as Slab, Caesura, Stone Canoe, Vita Poetica, and Nimrod. He is currently working on a collection of poems based on flowers.