Open The Door

At night, a two year's widow
I wake and leave the bed
Where my second husband sleeps
I stand and peer through the small window
Set in the door the former owners
Painted gayly in green and red,
Sometimes, I open the door.
It's not that I'm waiting
For your ghost, exactly,
Or even remembering how often
I waited past midnight for the headlights of your car
To pierce the darkness of the drive
It's not that I still expect you
It's not that.
Sometimes, I open the door.
In the Chinese poem
The translator's note tells us
The hem of the woman's skirt is wet
Because she has been waiting
A long time in the dew.
I stand in my summer nightgown
Or my thermal underwear
Sometimes, I open the door
It's quiet out, on a quiet street
My second husband turns in his sleep
The bird you gave me, our daughter in her bed
Sleep until first light
What can I tell you—
With you gone, there is both less and more.
Sometimes, I open the door.

© Miriam Sagan