Inadvertent Doorways
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The fledgling’s ruffled, stubby wings,
the spathes of skunk cabbages holding
baby Buddhas in their purple hands,
Miriam breathing on the tambourine
and then starting to dance, spring Gabrielling
into winter’s womb, ghosts walking
through our little aversions, the fallen tree
tied down by brambles and tangled grass.

Sitting by the creek, nibbling flakes of mica,
shadows identify themselves with us—the light
bearing night, the hidden graves of babies
in the church yard—all these inadvertent
doorways to the soul, to tears, and the loosening
words.

The surprised eyes of the old woman
with dementia, the moon’s mirror over
the pond’s still waters, turtles falling
off logs shattering it all, the gliding
owl you will never see again, the bundled
yarrow stalks ready for the fortune teller’s hands.

OK—I’ll stop. Remember Elijah, who was taken
up to heaven fiery chariot and all?
That won’t be us. We go down with the turtles
only to poke our painted faces out of the water,
pretending nothing happened.