Girl in the doorway

Girl in the

She is twelve now, the door to her room

closed, telephone cord trailing the hallway

in tight curls. I stand at the dryer, listening

through the thin wall between us, her voice

rising and falling as she describes her new life.

Static flies in brief blue stars from her socks,

her hairbrush in the morning. Her silver braces

shine inside the velvet case of her mouth.

Her grades rise and fall, her friends call

or they don’t, her dog chews her new shoes

to a canvas pulp. Some days she opens her door

and musk rises from the long crease in her bed,

fills the dim hall. She grabs a denim coat

and drags the floor. Dust swirls in gold eddies

behind her. She walks through the house, a goddess,

each window pulsing with summer. Outside,

the boys wait for her teeth to straighten.

They have a vibrant patience.

When she steps onto the front porch, sun shimmies

through the tips of her hair, the V of her legs,

fans out like wings under her arms

as she raises them and waves. Goodbye, Goodbye.

Then she turns to go, folds up

all that light in her arms like a blanket

and takes it with her.