Paraclausithyron

Why do you scoff at me, door? I have done you no wrong.

I have not struck you with an ax Or ripped you from your iron hinges.

I have even honored you, Hanging garlands on your posts

Because you guard one Worthy of every protection.

Why, then, do you stand Resistant as adamant

And deaf to my pleas, Indifferent to the blood

That gathers on my knuckles As I knock and knock?

Do you not know how the rain, Pregnant with winter,

Rolls down my back And puddles in my shoes?

And do you not care That when I press my ear

Against your oak, thick Though it is,

I can hear the giggles Of my beloved,

Wrapped in thick blankets And another’s arms?

Doorway, Wall Painting, and Doors, Edward Jewett, ca. 1939