Doors Left Open – Mary Vincent

She knows
which floorboards creak.
Counts exit signs
tips door stops
drops pebbles in her wake
sleeps with her shoes under the bed.
Her mouse-whisker brain knows
which windows she could fit through
if she had to.

When she was twelve a strand of double sided tape hung by the kitchen sink to
catch flies. Mosquitoes splattered the gloss. A bat clung to the paper thinking he
had found all the answers. He licked the corpses off the tape before
realizing he is victim to the spiders’ trademark. She placed his body in the
branches of a tree unwilling to consign a creature from the air to the earth.

Stained-glass bees coated in honey
trace the insides of her eye lids.
She understands the irony of being trapped
in her own creation.
She leaves
her car keys on the corner of the bed stand.
Drags a stick behind her to leave a trail through the dirt
leans it against the wall by the coat rack.
Never admits it would have been nice
to be asked if she wanted to stay.


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