Josh Luckenbach
It would not do to crack the door, to let the light,
without which hurt casts no shadows, in. It would not do.
Shadows would be a kind of map in a place where maps
are no good. You were naked in the room where I kept
my sadness. For that I dragged you here to this dark poem.
Have I been unfair? Probably. Did you mean harm? I don't know
if it matters. Let's say you were nothing but drunk and fell again
in the wrong spot. I was just a little boy. I'm avoiding
saying it—what we both are thinking. What happened,
unwitnessed. What no one else can attest to. Not even memory—
mine or yours. Memory is like a child curled under a blanket
on the floor by a locked door when no one is there
to let him out, and the child can't do it himself because he can't
reach the latch, and besides, he's sleeping, dreaming
some sweet scene his waking will lose forever.