Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Issue 5

Dear friends,

Welcome, and thank you for reading Beguile. We hope you enjoy Issue 5, and we wish you all Happy Holidays and a happy, healthy, and beguiling 2012!

The theme of this, the fifth issue of Beguile, is mirror images.  The events depicted here may not exactly resemble your life on the surface, but there may well be some level of similarity.  The idea of mirrors is reflected again in the photographs of this issue’s featured artist, Linda Seccaspina.

Happy Reading and Season’s Greetings,

Alysa Salzberg, Editor-in-Chief
The Beguile Team


In this issue of Beguile,


An excerpt from author Ingrid Ricks’ recent memoir Hippie Boy: A Girl’s Story opens a window on a very difficult moment at home.

Alison de Carabas takes us on a journey at once at home and abroad in her poem “Landmark”.

Richard Brown’s one-act play I’m Not Getting Up shows us just how exhausting modern life can be.

A new life comes into the world just before a horrendous tragedy in a selection from Sandra Koppel’s autobiographical novel Boy.

In “Runner”Alison de Carabas sees love racing away from her.


It’s a great pleasure for us here at Beguile to feature three photographs by Linda Seccaspina.  In her own words, Linda Seccaspina was born in Cowansville Quebec about the same time the wheel was invented. She used to own clothing stores in Ottawa and Toronto Ontario Canada from 1974-1996 called Flash Cadilac, and Savannah Devilles. Her brain tries to writes stories about her menopausal life and a host of other things she gets annoyed at. Photography has become the love of her life and she tries to photograph what others pass by.  Her first book, called Menopausal Women From the Corn, will be available soon.  You can see more of her photos on her page at Zoomers, where she also blogs, and at Viewshound.
Linda’s Twitter name is Mcpheeeeee- not that she really knows how to use it!

We’d like to thank all of our contributors for their kindness, patience, and cooperation.

And now, without further ado, prepare to be beguiled!

An excerpt from Hippie Boy: A Girl’s Story
by Ingrid Ricks

It was Monday night, the once a week time-slot designated by the Mormon Church as family night. 
My friends’ families used the night to go bowling together or head to Baskin Robbins for some ice cream. Our time was always spent in the living room, listening to some church lesson Mom or Earl had prepared from the Family Home Evening lesson book.
The evening’s topic was obeying and respecting your parents and Earl, the jobless motorcycle mechanic who had wormed his way into Mom’s life by pretending to be a good Mormon, had taken over. He held court on the juice-stained green couch the Church had donated to us, quoting from the large lesson book spread open across his stubby thighs.
“Thou shall obey thy father and mother,” he read, glancing around at all of us for effect.
I had become an expert at zoning out. I usually tried to revert into my daydream mode—the one where the Osmonds figured out they were missing a kid and had come to rescue me. But on this particular evening, I was too distracted to conjure up new family fantasies so I found a speck on the wall just above Earl’s head and focused all my attention there. It was amazing how many different shapes a speck could take on if you stared at it long enough.
After a few minutes Earl’s drone stopped and I heard Mom’s voice.
“Ingrid, are you listening to me? I said we are going to start father/daughter talks!”
Her words were like needles pricking my skin.
“Earl has decided to implement one-on-one talks with all of you kids,” she continued sternly. “I think it’s a great idea. We need to start changing things around here.”
       I looked at her in disgust, fighting the urge to walk over and slug her. Earl stayed seated by her side on the green couch, not saying a word, just nodding his head in agreement.  Every time he moved his head downward in a nodding motion, I could see flecks of dandruff caught in his greasy, matted black hair.     
“We’re going to do these on a weekly basis,” Mom continued. “Ingrid, we’ve decided to start with you.”
Of course they would start with me. I glanced over at my sisters, Connie and Heidi, who didn’t even try to hide their relief. I wanted to punch them both to wipe the smirks off their faces. My brothers snuggled next to Mom, free of the nightmare that awaited the rest of us.   
“Come on, Ingrid. Let’s go.”
I tried to get myself back into my zone-out state as I followed Mom and Earl into their bedroom, but I could feel the blood rushing to my face and my heart was pounding too hard to relax. Just the thought of being in such a close proximity of Earl made me want to throw up.  Mom’s bedroom was tiny and between the double bed and the dresser, there was only about two feet of moving room.
I took a seat on the worn gold bedspread that covered Mom’s bed and glared at her and Earl. They both leaned up against the dresser in front of me.
“First of all, I would like you to address me as ‘Father,’” Earl started out, locking his icy-blue eyes on me. “Father is a respectable name and I deserve it.”
It was the same demand he had been making since he and Mom married a year and a half ago. It was clearly just a power play, since he had to have known by now I’d rather be chopped up into tiny pieces than utter those words.
“You are not my DAD!” I snarled. “You’re Mom’s husband. That’s all!”
Earl turned to Mom. “Tell her to stop talking to me that way. Tell her. NOW!”
Mom grabbed my arm. I tried to shake her off but she was digging in hard with her fingers and wasn’t about to let go.
“Ingrid! Stop it right now!” 
“Just get away from me! Both of you!”
I thrashed around, trying to break free from her grasp. Then Earl grabbed me, pushed me backward, and helped Mom pin me to their bed.
            “Ingrid, listen to me,” Mom said, her voice suddenly filled with concern. “I think you have Satan inside of you. Earl’s going to give you a blessing.”
They continued to pin me to the bed, discussing where the sacred ointment was hidden so Earl could use his priesthood powers to bless the evil spirits out of me. Their voices became a muffled jumble around me. My head was pounding and I could hear a single word repeating itself in my mind: Escape. Escape. Escape.
Earl relaxed his hold. It was all I needed. I kicked him in the stomach, wrestled free from Mom, and ran from the room. I blocked out their yells as I reached for the front door, opened it, and slammed it behind me. I started sprinting down the block. I didn’t know where I was going.  I just knew I had to get away.
I ran a few blocks into the dark night and then stopped to catch my breath. It was early October and already the temperature had dipped near freezing. I was wearing only a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and I was cold.
I needed a plan. I didn’t have a place to go and I was scared to venture too far from the house because the night was so dark I was having a hard time seeing anything.
            The top half of our block was a large, overgrown weed patch nearly the length of a football field. I decided to head there and make it my hiding place until I could figure out what to do next. I retraced my steps back to my block and waded through the weeds into the center of the field. I used my hands to flatten some of the weeds, then plopped down and hugged my knees into my chest to keep warm. The weeds loomed about four feet high, and I figured I was safe for a while. I rocked back and forth, trying to comfort myself.
Once I had calmed down enough to think, I played out the situation in my mind—desperate to come up with an answer. But no matter how many times I went over it, my dilemma never changed. Life at home was hell and I wanted and needed to be with Dad. But Dad lived on the road as an independent salesman and I couldn’t be with him unless I wanted to drop out of ninth grade. During our most recent summer together, Dad and I had actually discussed the idea, though we both knew it wasn’t really an option.  But this brought me right back to life with Mom and Earl, and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it.
I wondered if Mom was sorry about what had just happened and if she was worried about me. I half expected to hear her voice calling out to me and sat waiting for it to happen. I thought about how I would react. I wouldn’t answer her calls at first; I would let her worry for a while and think about what she had just done. When I was convinced she was sorry, I would call out to her. She would make her way into the field, we would hug and cry for a while, and she would tell me how scared she was that I was gone and how sorry she was for getting so weird on me.
I waited for nearly two hours, hoping to hear her voice. But the only sounds I heard were my teeth chattering and the crickets chirping. I was freezing and alone. I couldn’t stand the thought of going back home; but it was too cold to stay outside any longer and I had nowhere else to go.
I stood up and slowly made my way back to the house. The porch light was on but otherwise the house was dark. I turned the knob on the front door and was relieved to find it unlocked. Straining to be as quiet as possible, I stepped inside.
The house was silent. Everyone seemed to be sleeping. It was as if nothing had happened earlier and no one cared that I was gone. 
            I tiptoed to the attic entrance, scaled the plywood steps to my room, and quickly shut my door. Then I attached the hook lock, pushed my nightstand up against the door, and crawled into bed in my jeans and T-shirt. I wanted to be ready to run if necessary.
Though finally warm under the covers, I couldn’t stop my body from trembling. I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours before I drifted off to sleep. 

Ingrid Ricks is a Seattle-based writer and speaker who focuses on overcoming adversity and embracing the moment. She is the author of Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story, her autobiography about a feisty teenage girl who escapes her abusive Mormon stepfather and suffocating religious home-life by joining her dad on the road as a tool-selling vagabond – until his arrest forces her to take charge of her life. The book as is available as an eBook or paperback on Amazon or  For more information, visit

Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story, is, in part, about escaping an oppressive and extreme Mormon home life. In writing my story, I wanted to show how a religious and cultural climate that gives men absolute power over their wives and children can have devastating consequences, and shine the spotlight on what I think is a very serious issue. But Hippie Boy is also about navigating a wild, rocky journey through childhood and adolescence and making it through on top. It's about discovering that whatever adversity or challenges you face in life, you have the power within yourself to overcome it. And once you discover that power, nothing can stop you from obtaining the life you want for yourself.  

Walk to the Light - The Door to the Other Side

"Walk to the Light - The Door to the Other Side"


by Alison de Carabas

I’m a tourist
in my own home
I take pictures of each wall
like it’s Paris
or Rome
In the distance and right beside me
troops march in never-ending parade
and archeologists are still discovering things
and the kiosks are selling magazines
I seem to have read twenty times over
I fumble along the strange winding streets
to find the living room
where I sit down on the sofa
(an expensive gondola?)
and start to snap photos of the crying baby
like it’s a new


Alison de Carabas lives in a small town and writes poems she hopes will speak to someone.

This poem was inspired by existential moments at home, and as I wrote I felt another story there, too, about a child the speaker doesn’t know what to do with – maybe it’s her own?


by Richard Brown

Setting: a living room, late morning. 

Characters:  He: a husband
She: a wife
Both perhaps in their mid-40s

He is lying on the couch, under a blanket. She enters the room and is startled.

SHE: Dear, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be packing!

HE: I’m not getting up. You can’t make me.

SHE: But I’m supposed to drive you to the airport this afternoon! You’ve been planning to go visit your sister for weeks.

HE: I’m not flying. It’s too dangerous with all this terrorism. The guy sitting next to me might have explosives in his shorts. I don’t want my last moments on earth to be spent plummeting 20,000 feet over East Cow Patch, Nebraska.  

SHE: You’re being ridiculous. The skies are safe. Thousands of planes fly every day without incident. The airport just installed a full-body scanner that can see if anybody’s carrying explosives under their clothes.

HE: Great. Now the little old ladies in line will see my family jewels. 
SHE: The people in line don’t see it! They project the image into another room…

HE: Where the security guards will be laughing at my junk.
SHE: …where they have an algorithm that blurs the naughty bits and…
HE: Yeah, sure. You think if some Hollywood starlet comes through the scanner, they won’t be disabling that algorithm and posting the image on the Internet within an hour? I know I would.   
SHE: Fine, fine, we’ll cancel the flight. It’s not too late to book Amtrak.

HE: The trains don’t go there.

SHE: Take a bus then.

HE: A bus? Have you ever BEEN on a bus?

SHE: What is wrong with you? I’ve never seen you behave like this.

HE: Don’t you see? The apocalypse is coming. The world is collapsing from all its dangers. I’ve tried to be a good citizen of the world but now I know I failed. (Pause.) So I’m hiding.

SHE: Nonsense. You’re an excellent role model for your sons, you do a lot of charitable work, you vote. You’re doing everything you should do. 
HE: And yet the world is still coming to an end.

SHE: (Getting an inspiration.) Wait, I know how you can visit your sister. We’ll make it a road trip! My mother could watch the twins for a while. I’m owed some vacation time and we should spend some alone time together, just you and me. I’ve always wanted to drive cross-country.

HE: I’m not driving 2,000 miles in the SUV. We’d use so much gas and spew so much pollution that by the time we arrived, polar bears would be swimming in a tropical paradise. Besides, the roads are unsafe. Sooner or later, we’re gonna get smashed by some pimply-faced teenager LOL’ing his BFF while running a red light.  

SHE: Well, you’re gonna have to get up sometime. How are you going to go to the bathroom? 

(He reaches under the blanket and pulls out a bed pan.)

SHE: Dear, you’re taking everything way too seriously. Everything we do involves a moral choice, but you can’t obsess about it like this. Sometimes the moral choices are clear, but sometimes they’re a little hazy. Do like I do. I make a moral stand on a few things, I try to do well in other situations, and sometimes I just let it go and relax and enjoy myself and don’t sweat because I can’t be perfect. Otherwise, you suffer from paralysis by analysis.

HE: I like paralysis. I don’t have to make any choices. 
SHE: Listen, you need to calm down. C’mon, I’ll take you to Starbucks and buy you a venti chai latte. 

HE: I don’t even know what those words mean. Whatever happened to just plain “coffee?” Starbucks is ruining the English language. It’s the only place where “tall” means “small.” If I tell a barista that she’s smart and friendly, am I calling her stupid and surly in Starbucks language?
SHE: (She grabs his shoes and tries to hand them to him.) C’mon, put your shoes on, let’s go.

HE: (Waving away the shoes.) I can’t wear those any more. They’re made of leather.  Every time I take a step, I hear “Moooo!”

SHE: (Dropping the shoes.) Fine, I’ll go get your sneakers.

HE: They were probably made in an Asian sweatshop.

SHE: You’ve got moccasins. Wear those.

HE: Yeah, I’ll wear the moccasins, while (spoken dramatically like an orator) I honor the Native Americans whose blood stains these hallowed grounds.  

SHE: Dear, what’s really eating you? I’ve never seen you like this. You’ve always been a responsible person. There’s got to be something else getting under your skin.

HE: (Pause.) If you want to know the truth … I’m afraid of getting old. I don’t have the stamina I used to. My hair’s turning gray. I get aches and pains that I’ve never felt before. I don’t want to spend my golden years still paying off college loans and getting hip replacements and racing to the early-bird specials at Denny’s. I see my youth slipping away and there’s still so many things I haven’t done yet.

SHE: Like what?

HE: Well, I’ve never climbed Mount Everest.

SHE: You huff and puff walking up the stairs!

HE: I haven’t written the Great American Novel.

SHE: I can’t even get you to sign the Christmas cards!

HE: I’ve never had a threesome.

SHE: (Pause.) What?

HE: ..I..I’ve always wanted to have a threesome.

SHE: Really. (Pause.) Well, you had your chance last year.

HE: What? When was that?

SHE: Remember? You were naked in a room with me and Lisa.

HE: Being checked for moles by a dermatologist with cold hands is not foreplay!

SHE: Well, that’s as close as you’re going to get!

HE: (Sighs.) I guess you’re right. I’m being silly, aren’t I? (Pulls off the blanket, sits up and puts on his shoes.) Let’s go for a nice, brisk walk. The weather’s nice and we could use the exercise. (Stands up.) And didn’t you say that you wanted to lose ten pounds?

SHE: Yes, but my doctor said I should stay inside and rest with the air conditioner on. It’s because of my allergies.

HE: Then how are you ever going to lose the weight?

(She stares at him, then runs over to the couch and climbs under the blanket.)

SHE: I’m not getting up. You can’t make me.

HE: Come on, we can join the gym.

SHE: I’m not exposing my flab in front of all those hard bodies.

HE: A half hour on a treadmill will do you good!

SHE: Then I drink one Gatorade and put all the calories back on.

HE: Now you’re being silly, dear.

SHE: No, I’m not. It stinks to be a middle-aged woman.

HE: (Getting an inspiration.) You know what would be fun? We can have a cookout tomorrow. We can invite Sandy and the kids over.

SHE: Those germy little snot-nosed brats? I’d be lucky if I only caught the swine flu.

HE: We can grill some steaks and burgers.

SHE: The cardiologist says we shouldn’t eat red meat.

HE: Well, we can barbecue some chicken too. And not that Tyson stuff.  We’ll get that free-range chicken you’re always talking about. (Pause.) Of course, I don’t really know what free-range means.

SHE: It means that, instead of being locked in a crowded cage, the chickens are allowed to wander around freely. Then they’re slaughtered. It’s very humane.

HE: Sounds it. We’ll get some veggies for salad.

SHE: I’m only eating locally grown, organic veggies.

HE: OK, so we’ll make a trip to Whole Foods.

SHE: No, not Whole Foods! I’m not giving my hard-earned money to their anti-health-care, global-warming-denying CEO SOB.

HE: You mean our hard-earned money. Listen, relax. Let’s stay home tonight, order some take-out Chinese, cuddle up on the couch and watch TV. Turner Classic is showing your favorite movie: Chinatown.

SHE: I can’t watch that! It was directed by Roman Polanski! I don’t want to enable a pervert!

HE: Dear, everything on TV has a pervert involved somewhere.

SHE: (Sighs.) Oh, I guess I was being silly too. (She pulls off the blanket and sits up.) Really, there’s only so much one person can do. We’ve only got one life and we should relax and enjoy as much of it as possible, right? 

HE: Right. I’m so glad we’ve both come to our senses. 

(She stands up.)

SHE: Put on some music and I’ll help you pack.

(He puts on the radio. “California Dreaming” by the Mamas and Papas starts playing.)

SHE: Oh, I love the Mamas and the Papas. Such beautiful voices. Let’s dance.

(He puts his arm around her waist and they begin to twirl.)

HE: This was one of my favorite songs growing up. 

SHE: And, you see? You can say that without being reminded of how old you’re getting. (He stops dancing, releases her and tries to walk away. She grabs his arm and pulls him back.) Come back here. (They continue dancing.)

HE: You’re right. I should just relax and enjoy this moment and enjoy the song. And, you see? You can listen to it without thinking about how the singer was a pervert who slept with his own daughter. (She stops dancing and tries to walk away. He grabs her arm and pulls her back.) Wait, come back. (They continue dancing.) We don’t even have a daughter, silly. We have twin boys.

SHE: Yes, and they’re growing up so fast. It’s hard to believe they’re going to turn 13 next month. Imagine, we’re going to have two teenage boys in the house.

HE: That’s right, two teenage boys. Pretty soon, they’ll be getting their driver’s licenses and going out with girls.

SHE: Driver’s license? (They stop dancing.) Girls? (They stare at each other as the song ends.)

(Both of them race over to the couch, and fight for the blanket. Lights dim.)

                                                THE END

Richard Brown blogs under the name Cranky Cuss.  He lives in the suburbs of New York City.  He has a wife who calls him “her first husband,” and two daughters who insist they are adopted. Despite popular demand, he is working on a book.

I’d always wanted to write a short play for the local one-act festival.  Apparently, the feeling wasn’t mutual.  This piece was inspired by my usual paralysis when confronted by situations in which all of the choices seem flawed. 

Time After Time - Doomsday Cold War Art

"Time After Time - Doomsday Cold War Art"

An excerpt from Boy, an autobiographical novel
by Sandra Koppel

When her boy is born in Manhattan on the day before 9/11 and the mom is alone, it's the start of a whole new set of challenges for this over-imaginative unemployed dreamer who gives new life to the phrase "single mom".

If you could imagine how I plotted on my calendar when I would fly to Milwaukee and how long I would stay. Twice I extended my trip by more than two weeks. I called and changed the ticket. The first time didn’t work and the second did. And then I was back in New York. And I knew that very day. I stood behind the black wrought iron guardrail with the big apple design at the airport waiting for a taxi and I felt my fate in the form of those little pulling cramps you get when that possibility for life travels down to meet what awaits it. And, people, I was just hours from making sure that if it was going to happen it was going to happen now. So I knew. I took a real big breath. That wrought iron guardrail, those pale jeans that I wore and those black boots, every single Pissarro-pointillist dot that made up my world was going to change.
And it wasn’t sugar and roses kind of unbelievable it was more like black spikes. When I think about some certain things now I for sure can’t believe them. But that was before he was born. After he was born they were gone. I didn’t go back. That was probably why he had that aura. That. If you could have seen his smooth perfection. He only weighed five pounds. I held him against me in one arm, lengthwise, and talked on the phone. A little live tiny doll. My mom came out from Milwaukee. She didn’t get there until 10:00 that night. Her plane had to circle around Pennsylvania for hours. Exactly the day before 9/11, like a harbinger. The guy was dead drunk when I called him. I got off the phone. For-get-it.    
I was waiting for the nurses to bring him from the nursery when 9/11 happened. I was on morphine. Why was he in the nursery? Probably because of the morphine. (C-section.) This part is kind of a blur. You could have him with you at night, next to you in a little bassinette, or he could go to the nursery. They suggested he go to the nursery. I said okay. I was totally out of it and a little worried that I would drop him. I was sitting up in a chair. Someone had told me to sit up in a chair. I said fine. Everything had to be adjusted—tubes. Suddenly people came running into my room. The TV had been on in the halls. The first plane had hit. You could see the towers from my window. Twelfth floor. Straight from my window, all the way down Manhattan from 59th and 10th, Roosevelt Hospital.
Take me to the window, take me to the window. I was yelling. Not screaming, but yelling. I had very little idea what was going on. On the other hand, I did know, completely clearly. Morphine is a very strong drug. The second plane hit. Did I see it? Was I near the window? How did I get there? Did I walk? The image is in my mind, over and over again. But is it the image from the TV and the newspapers and the magazines or what I saw from the window? The smoke, the crashing, the horror, the unknowing. Why would a plane hit the towers? Why would two? Nobody knew what was going on. I got on the phone and started calling people. I called my mom at my apartment. She was staying in my apartment on 30th between 8th and 9th. She was oblivious. It looks peaceful here, she said. She had gone to the window. Well, I didn’t have a TV at the apartment either. No, no, I kept yelling. I couldn’t get her to understand. Planes hit the twin towers.
I called my sisters. Both of them. In the Midwest. What? they said. Turn on the TV, I told them. Nobody brought my baby in until about 11:00. The hospital was mobilizing. Finally I had the baby. I kept asking for him. And I kept making sure I had the right one—I took a close look at him the second he was born. Who wanted him to get switched in all the confusion? Finally my mom came. She didn’t get there until after 2:00. I had told her to bring me some food. She had to walk the whole way. There were no subways. No buses. You couldn’t get a taxi. She said everybody was walking around in a daze, like a war. Black smoke curled up from the towers. That kept going for days. And then that blankness, that empty space. That toxic absence. And sense of what was gone and what had changed.
And I had a little, brand-new, five-pound boy. Everybody said he was gorgeous. The whiny roommate’s family said he was gorgeous. He had this little light fuzz on his head. He slept with perfect beauty. He was so delicate. At first I didn’t even think he had eyebrows, everything about him was so fine. But they showed up. We took him home in a taxi on the fourth day. I had to stay four days because of the C-section. And they were a painkiller-mix of haze and clarity. Smoke billowed from the towers all four days, and I especially would sit and watch it at night. It was quiet at night. I had my own room. The world was still. And that smoke billowed.
The air was acrid near my house. The light had that very particular fall quality, shadows trembled on the sidewalk. I put my baby in the new white crib with the light blue sheets that had stars and moons on them. But at night I kept him in the bed next to me. And I did that same thing I had done in the hospital. I woke up in terror, clawing at the blankets. Where was he? What had I done with him? Had I dropped him? Was he wrapped up in there? No. There he was, as peaceful as a new sun. Every time I looked at him I vowed I would never let him down.
Ecstasy, and down. Ecstasy, and down. Joy, and down. Joy, joy, and joy. All over the place. Up, and all over, and down. My highway. My little boy grows. He was thin at first like a little starving child. He was so tiny that he squeaked instead of crying. The tiniest little shirt was too big. But I fed him. I fed him, walked around, and he grew. I took him all over Manhattan. I showed him to strangers. My new little darling boy.

I live in Manhattan with my son and I teach high-school English in the Bronx. I have published a feature article in the Sunday New York Times, and I blog on Open Salon at:  I’m currently sending out my autobiographical novel, Boy, to publishers and agents. 

This piece is an excerpt from the first chapter of my autobiographical novel.  My aim in writing it is to provide an offbeat and poetic perspective of life in the city for a single mom and her son. I would like to highlight the beauty and difficulty behind ordinary moments and the desire of a single woman to connect with the world around her as she finds the determination to construct a plausible life for herself and her son.

Breaking Dawn on Haight Street - Victorian Architecture

"Breaking Dawn on Haight Street"

by Alison de Carabas

Tonight I’m thinking of the backs of your knees,
like door-hinges
and how I love you so.
You are a runner,
Your feet pound the asphalt ground,
putting distance between you and me.
I watch in dumb wonder at your fast pace,
how you take the turns so dizzingly.
Tonight I’m thinking of the backs of your knees,
seen in flashes
of pale-gold sunlight
and motions of leaves
The backs of your knees,
like door-hinges
and how I long to reach out
and trace the thin lines and shadowy spaces there,
how I love you so,
           as you go.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem is about unrequited love.