thresholds

take me out.

knock me over the head with a baseball bat and drag my unconscious form

beneath the shadowed wall. into a wardrobe. a hobbit hole.

wherever you can think to put me, do so. i want out.

i want to make my mark

in the warm earth, tell them who i am, and then i want to go.

i want a door.

a door carved by my great-great-grandfather's hand, polished oak

glowing in the late afternoon light. i want the doorknob

to have been caressed by my ancestors,

the key to have been turned so many times the lock has broken

waiting for them to open the door.

i don't just want wonder. i want history

and i want everyone i've never met to be standing on the other side

to greet me and then kiss me goodbye.

for i will be going. this door wants me home.

this door has a staircase on the other side, a landing

carpeted in dreams the color of my grandmother's eyes,

a descent down into the absolute unknown.

take me there. i want to stand

for a moment, poised above my destiny,

and be the one to choose to step over the threshold.