If it is my husband, he will be wearing a rope
tied around his ankle, too tight;
he loves the knot, though his skin festers.
I will want to salve that wound, untangle the bond,
cure that cut with a touch, but
my hands will be too heavy to raise.
They lie in my lap, useless flesh,
the thumbs pointing down, fingers curved floorward with gravity.
My husband will pass me as he walks slowly to another door,
he does not see me,
he passes through, the rope dragging behind.

If it is my lover, he will be wearing kaleidoscope glasses
with pictures of naked women.
His clever hands will reach for the one closest to him.
He tilts his head,
he is listening to something, I cannot catch the melody,
but I can see the wave of sound, purple and gold
and blue, twining him.
His hand will brush my cheek as he passes
and I will ache, but he steps over me
and turns a corner of the corridor
his steps flaring sparks against the flinty tile.

If it is my daughter, her heart will be wearing a door
matching those in the corridor.
It stands open, and I can almost see into
its little, red room.
She is crying for me to fill it
with furniture, and I want to put my two fingers
into that doll's house, cluttered and tumbled,
to straighten the tiny bed, stroke the tiny cat.
My hands stay empty.
Her door stands open.
Our emptiness surges out from the doors, all of them,
in a wind so thick and hot I cannot take breath.
Through the viscous air I see her eyes, wide:
we are both drowning.
Our hands clasp, finally, together.