Matthew Sweeney
The Doors
The Doors
Behind the door was another door
and behind that was another.
The first door was black, as befitted
a four-storey Georgian house
on a street shaded by oaks.
The second door was the grey
of the sky before rain.
The third door was blue, or blue-
green – let’s say cobalt – with a stiff
black wrought-iron handle
which took the shape of a mermaid
instead of a dog or a dragon.
Or the rattlesnake I expected
to rear up, hissing, at me
when I crossed the threshold.
No chime announced me.
No animal or person met me.
The corridor I looked down
was lined with male portraits.
The rugs had embroidered females.
The ghost of incense haunted
the air I hardly breathed.
I took a couple of half-steps
then stood there, listening.
I heard the portraits breathing
then, from some distant room,
a cuckoo clock cuckooing.
My smile turned into a cough
that echoed off the walls
and infiltrated the house.
The women on the first rug
were grinning at me.
All the eyes in the portraits
were turned my way.
I looked back at the door
heard the lock click, then beyond
another lock, then another.
