I keep it barred, that door into the dark,
although a weight still pushes at the bolt.
Most days I manage, only now and then
my grip grows slack, the lock gives with a jolt.
All in my mind.
But still he blocks the light,
across the threshold throws a livid shade,
his words, hot fists, still sounding in my head,
the thumping tune, a pounding serenade.

He never laid a hand on anyone.
The blows were subtle, finely honed, finessed,
and found their target. That was the only way
he knew to care, to crush what he loved best.

I hold myself, still, out of his shadow’s sway,
grow towards light now, keep the dark at bay.

Today's poem is from Catherine Ann Cullen's new collection Storm Damage (Dedalus Press)