Meagan Walsh

Mahogany Door


Three gentle taps on the pine door at dawn

To see if you are awake

The sound of bare feet meeting the cracked floor boards.


Then right

Something about this time of morning

All of the windows open

Inviting the cool September breeze in.

The whistle of the kettle.


Then high

You, across the glass table

Your reflection hazy in the glass.

It was symbolic of the morning.

Threshold consciousness.

Balance hasn’t come to me yet

As I spill my tea on the glass.

The sunrise reflecting in the little puddles of earl grey.

You make a joke about the laws of gravity

A beautiful disaster

is what you called me.

I had never really considered

How everything that is up

Must come down

If it is not supported.

The boiling water has to settle.

I made a silent promise

to your reflection that morning in the glass table

I will always keep you held up high.

The wind was higher now

A storm is showing its face.

The mahogany boards split slightly under your feet

As you walk to shut the windows.

High, then low

Your feet on their tip toes reaching the window and grounded again.

You grab the towel hand stitched with little forget me nots

To clean my mess.

What was left of the sunrise remained reflected in your eyes