The Trap Door
by Laura Foley

Love is a hollowness in the chest,
like feeling each of a tick’s eight feet
scurrying through my neck’s downy nape,
seeking the perfect site to suck life from me.

Love is an ever-fixed mark, says Will.
He meant steadiness,
but I can’t helping thinking target.
Love is known from its absence
, say I,

when the trap door of loneliness opens
and I fall in–but also by the small glee
of freedom when she’s away–
and by our front door’s welcome squeaking,
when one of us comes home from roaming.


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