It was my nightly recurring teenage motif:
The cramped room with a stomach-knotting
presence, creaky floorboards and one wickedly
white door looming as ghastly and large as
any bad-movie omen about to play out.
Being poltergeist-gripped, it swayed back an inch
before a sudden but noiseless slam
shut that unhinged me toward hasty shouts
of, "The power of Christ compels thee!"
(It's a silver-bullet phrase packed and ready in
the chamber of all aspiring exorcists.)
The devil scared out of me yet again,
I'd wake up with renewed vows to avoid TV
horror fests, and those sensational stories
my mom brought home in her Weekly World News.
At We Write Poems, Wayne Pitchko suggested we write about doors. Digging back into my childhood, this is what I came up with.