what a small club

by l. ward abel

What a small club
that includes my name.
Membership is limited to the space required
of passing through
from one world to the next
alone,
a path set by actions
in foregoing rooms
dimly lit, fingerprint patterns in woodgrain
frozen without chill,
a portal frame
where an about-face return
becomes impossible.
This cramped guild
calls me in my youth with Mother’s voice,
but dispatches me later cold, staved,
concreted, forced,
shuttled from a doorway
that is painted in stills and death-florals.
A moving union of myself.
Shrinking circles,
embracing
arms,
ultimately
meet
only
air
as resistance.

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