Flailing in the blind air, a slapstick
drop through the darkness –
That door wasn’t a door.
Surf down the stairs on my white flannel
belly, a bruised boogie board. The smell of carpet
and fresh blood. Muffled thumps, my mouth hitting each
oak tread. Count: one, two, three…
Tooth fairy, don’t visit me tonight.
Bank shot off the paneling, skim
the sharp-shanked balusters by the open wall.
Arms out, arms out.
My arms and neck, forgive me.
Below, the floor tightens
its slate tiles in anticipation. I can hear it breathe.
M.J. Turner’s poems have appeared in Spillway, concīs, and the I-70 Review. She lives in Massachusetts.