You’re at The Threshold, standing before one hundred doors. All closed. Their faces the myriad faces of wood, of a forest, of the trees they were before.
Doors. The opening closing, squeaky hinges, varnished, click of the lock, finality, possibility. Doors. They ring you, all one hundred doors, whispering. The woods are whispering.
Why is it woods are alive and wood is dead? Is the wood any less alive than the woods? What remains when the trees have been planed, shaped, and screwed?
They’re inviting. They all want you, standing there in the dust. You’re in black and white, yet each door is tinted in color, enticing purple, scarlet, tinsel silver glow, flamingo, hint of green chili, sickness yellow.
The dog whimpers at your foot, anxious to go.
*first published in the author’s chapbook, screaming
John Reinhart is an arsonist, father of three, and poet. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review and recipient of the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship. His work has been nominated for multiple Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards. To date, he has penned five collections of poetry. Find his work at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html and @JReinhartPoet
Lonesome October Lit 