Lior Sapir
Knocks

To every room,
And wherever you go,
Doors are in the way:
Marking off territories
Like flags on an embassy.

The managers and executives
Who shut their doors --
Their clacking briefcases --
Securely sealing your dreams:
The contracts and deals.

The doors to their
Limousines closed,
You saw your face reflected
In the mirror tint of their
Escaping windows,

Like you see yourself
Now, in the mirror
Hanging from your door;
Like the dead man
Hanging from his rope --

All those doors, now
Closing -- slowly --
Reminding of your mother’s creaking
Voice, telling you to get off the couch,
And get out the door.

<< Back to Issue 8, 2005