I keep opening these doors
every day, and like Alice, they shrink
but the skies on the other side are
Turkish delight. I can sense them fill
with grackles and pigeons, swarming
the statues I’ve erected to memories
that shift with the phases of the moon.
And the funny thing is, each time
I fling the handle wide, expecting another wooden sarcophagus,
another feast of splinters, instead
I’m greeted with a handful of glass,
a tire swing sundial indicating noon
and a statue of Pygmalion and Galatea consuming each other like ouroboros.