The Gatekeeper
Josephine Anne (Ina) A. Carino

What I allow in
or out depends entirely
on the weight of the object?
whether it rides lightly
in the crook of my arm,
or drapes itself on my weak shoulder?
whether its stable heaviness
fits squarely in the confines
of my cupped hands.

Let it not be gaudy
or perfunctory in color;
after time, neon turns mundane,
and fuchsia is an eyesore
unless embodied in
the deep velvet plush
of soft flowers.

Instead, let its voice have
the timbre, the satisfying click
of a closing door, the silent
rumpling of morning sheets,
the barely audible ring of cold air
coming in through the open window.

What only I could crave:
something to mimic
the curve of my scapula,
the grain of my wood.

© Josephine Anne A. Cariño