Portals
Nick Aster
The door to our room is the latched top of a vast jar.
Inside these walls, old darkening sugar, apricot halves and everything equinox seeps deep
into our skin.
If this room is a jar, it is tipped on its side and filled with flower petals and whispered sacraments.
Honey, we are fruitage in these perfectly still moments of eventide.
Were this rooms of ours to right itself
we would see the door above us as we lay on the floor
(now a doublewindow)
lamenting the brevities of the night and shadies.
Do you remember when I told you that you were, and still are,
the daisy that’s unfurled, moonbathing, in the garden across the street?
When I told you that you were, and may still be, a miracle,
moment by moment,
of naked existence?
You asked me if all daises were miracles? If the flower petals in this room, this jar, were psalms?
“When you are the daisy, it is a miracle. Without you, flowers are just happenstance,
blooming words that leak to earth from the corners of God’s mouth when he naps.”
Do you remember that? I hardly do.
When you sleep next to me do you stand next to me as I wander through my dreams?
I fear the harvest. The world’s crepuscular season of witheredgrasslips and spirits.
In just days now, the air will be spiced with haunts and dank aspen skin.
Will you unlatch the doorlid on the ceiling and ramble into the orange above,
leaving me sleeping against the nightchilled starstained glassbottom?
Will ghouls sneak into our room through the door above,
left a jar,
to eat the sugared apricots and whispers?
Will October’s breath blow you and your daisy seeds into strange soil and strange rooms
against strange windows slandered with unseasoned light from a strange moon?
Could this dormant, anxious, equinox
handle such a miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence?
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