HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DOORS
by Meena Alexander
This house has a thousand doors
the sills are cut in bronze
three feet high
to keep out snakes,
toads, water rats
that shimmer in the bald reeds
at twilight
as the sun burns down to the Kerala coast.
The roof is tiled in red
pitched with a silver lightning rod,
a prow, set out from land's end
bound nowhere.
In dreams
waves lilt, a silken fan
in grandmother's hands
shell coloured, utterly bare
as the light takes her.
She kneels at each
of the thousand doors in turn
paying her dues.
Her debt is endless.
I hear the flute played in darkness,
a bride's music.
A poor forked thing,
I watch her kneel in all my lifetime
imploring the household gods
who will not let her in.
