I dream doors precariously held
long shut, flung open and quick-closing
but caught, with fingertips scrabbling
to catch the wood from clapping
its final soft knocking sound.
I dream doors that disappear.
That are nevermore or ever were,
resting between the buttressed rooms
of “If only” and “I will”
a place the same in appearance, only.
The dream goes on, out of rooms
and into a field, line or lines
to cross or follow; something of meaning
or just another Sunday award show
kind of line, stretching along long.
Here, I see her—Viola—
in a field of women, black and green growing,
standing and being seen; arms outstretched,
speaking “I am here” and other
obvious revelations. Black women
filling the field and crossing the line
and making the doors disappear.
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