The Door is a Jar — Maria Vargas
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
My grandmother cuts the sky with an ax.
I reach for her roses, blossoming pink.
She feeds the logs to the fire
and harvests rainwater in a pot.
When she bends down, I catch a glimpse
of her scar. Her apron snagged on a pan
and poured boiling oil down her leg.
An act of cleansing, she called it.
The door is ajar, allowing cold light
to spill into the yard.
I make love to myself in the bathtub,
burning, baptized, the ritual, useless.
Jesus watches me from the cross,
and my dress clings tighter to my body.
My pulse is frantic, fluttering
like a cabbage moth.
I press a hand to my breast,
listen to my heart hunger.
The sun buries its mouth in mine.
I hold my head underwater
as the moan bubbles out of my throat.
My grandmother painted the door blue,
saved two months for the color.
The door is a jar,
and I rattle inside.
Maria Vargas is a suburban poet from Coachella, California, whose goal is to connect with her readers, rather than elude them. Her work has appeared in The Orange Rose, Persephone Literary Magazine, Suburban Witchcraft, Flowermouth Press, Beyond the Page, Fieldwren, and more.
