The Unlocked Door

The power went out when the oak branch broke.

Suddenly, the house was a hollow lung.

I sat on the kitchen linoleum

with the taste of copper on my tongue.

I was twelve and the silence was a weight.

I kept checking the lock on the basement door,

sure that the shadows were growing teeth,

sure I couldn't handle the dark anymore.

Now I’m thirty and the lights just flickered.

I waited for a voice to call out my name,

but the only thing glowing was the oven clock,

green and steady and exactly the same.