Doors
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

In the bathroom downstairs, there was a section
of wood grain on the dark door that looked like a shark.
I used to stare at it while I sat on the toilet.

And, from then on, I searched for shapes on doors—
faces, animals, monsters–just as I searched the clouds
for the same.

The doors to the examination rooms in Dr. Ozil’s office
had many ghosts. And as I sat—legs swinging—
waiting for the nurse to come give me what my mother said

were allergy shots–which I learned much later,
were really testosterone shots–the elongated faces
stared back.

And, to this day, most doors still have frozen faces—
except for the doors to the rooms at the clinic
where I received my first prescription for estrogen.

Those faces loved me, and those doors turned into trees,
and the forests they opened to were wonderful–
and still are, and the archways I walk beneath, still let in the sun.