At first I expected an answer. There was no doubt that someone would hear me knocking. The door will open any moment now because that’s how it works—knock and the door opens: on this we can all depend.
After awhile, I become interested in the knocking itself, not as a means to an end but a thing in itself. I vary the pattern and find the part of my knuckle that produces the most satisfying sound. I imagine there are ears on the other side, ears that are as amused as I am. I pretend this door is what I’m here for. I imagine I’m already there. I find the climax of knocking
then the situation begins to annoy me. enough already, just open the fucking door. the anger gives my knocking another burst of energy, let. me. in. LET. ME. IN.
before desperation sets in and i lean against the door, a broken knocker, pressing my ears to the dead wood, why won’t anybody open, why am i alone here
the rapping keeps time with my heart and i become the knocking, i am a knocking knuckle, the ghostly echo of yearning, a heartbeat detached from its sonogram, a question mark ringing in the cathedral,
and i forget all about the heartbeat the door my hands and what i wanted
i let the knuckle keep doing what it does but i don’t hear it anymore i’m beyond
through bone and wood
and sound i’m somewhere