All night he was wind leaning on a door
you wanted to open. The whole world
spilled through the hole he’d torn
in his side. He had nothing to say
that wasn’t your name. In his teeth
his own blood turned brown. You had to
see him naked, name those animal scars
in their torchlight contortions. Only then.
Someone saw him through the window
slumped on the porch the prints of his hands
all over everything. They said how much
he must care so you rested then
against the other side, pressed your palms
where his might be, swore you heard your name
under that rough wind. Love is open hands
you kept saying. Love is a door.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.