By Maureen Thorson

To dilapidated archives, candle-smoked naves, dancehalls pulsing with sweat and perfume. To snow-cold woods groaning like ships tossed at sea, the moon behind the mountain, the drafty rooms of the North Wind’s castle. In from the alley, out to the field, up from the attic, down to the dungeons. There’s a peephole, a keyhole, iron hasps, cracked blue paint, a bell in the shape of a dragon curled round a push-button egg. The hinges are silent perfectly weighted nearly rusted shut there aren’t any the whole thing moves on chains. No one’s ever used it a million bodies pass through each day. The scuffed knob starts to rattle before you grip it in your hand.

~~~

Maureen Thorson is the author of three books of poetry: Share the Wealth (Veliz Books 2022), My Resignation (Shearsman 2014), and Applies to Oranges (Ugly Duckling Presse 2011). Her book of lyric essays, On Dreams, was published with Bloof Books in 2023. She lives in Falmouth, Maine. Visit her at www.maureenthorson.com