Self-Portrait as a Door - Donika Ross (poem)

All the birds die of blunt-force trauma —
of barn of wire of YIELD or SLOW
CHILDREN AT PLAY. You are a sign
are a plank are a raft are a felled oak.
You are a handle are a turn are a bit
of brass lovingly polished.
What birds what bugs what soft
hand come knocking. What echo
what empty what room in need 

of a picture a mirror a bit of paint 

on the wall. There is a hooked rug. 

There is a hard hand as you are 

hard pounding the door. There is the doormat

owl eye patched by a boot by a body

with a tree for a hand. What roosts 

what burrows what scrambles 

at the pound. There is a you 

on the other side, cold and white 

as the room, in need of a window 

or an eye. There is your hand 

on the door which is now the door 

pretending to be a thing that opens.