THE DOOR INTO DARKNESS — by Kevin Killian
A hand within touching distance of the doorknob. No light, no sound, the lintel black with absence and size. The wristwatch that talks, “Time for your medications.” Feeling, the cold drip within your thigh, the scent of fear. Quiet, the set is cleared and the long spaces grow still, dark. Bitter scent of attempted, the light, the warm hatching eggs. Open the door, pick its hinges, flood the house with darkness. A short burst of steam, the mailbox slot as hot as his asshole, darkness within and the field of the open human page. The check for his pills, and a glass of water from crystal springs tipped to his mouth: he is old now, yodeling in a sleep indecent, cracked, his hand furtive sly yanks at a single sheet— Pull at the tubes, throw open the black wooden door and let go. All the world staring at him from inside his own eyes and I’m like, the hand that takes the door by the knob, firmly, uprooted, as once I made him come with my hand, till he couldn’t stop gasping for breath. Now he can breathe, now he can live, now he can come, now he can write “dead” in the dark.