The lilacs hid the remains of a porch
it used to screen. The hints of joints and steps
leading up and between. Stone remnants of
a foundation, a house that used to be
stolid and presentable to the world.
Flush with flowers, the branches bending low,
bowing under their weight, I waited, too,
shifting my own meager childish weight,
from one foot to the other, sifting through
those parts of me solid and true, walled in
by my imagination, as white-washed
walls rose back into view. The air heavy
with its perfume. My head dizzy. I kept
hearing a screen door slam, the creek of its
hinges, the long sigh of the door swinging
open as simple as breathing, then wham,
smacking back in place again. Sometimes, I
walked right on through; sometimes I turned around
and went back down the way I came, drenched in
scent, somehow invisible to the world.

Deborah H. Doolittle’s publications include Floribunda and Bogbound, with some of her recent work appearing in Ibbetson Street, Iconoclast, Rattle, Slant, and The Stand. An avid bird-watcher, she shares a home with her husband, six housecats, and a backyard full of birds.