Jiro

Derek Goffard + Hairstyles

by Margaret Atwood

The door swings open, you look in. It’s dark in there, most likely spiders: nothing you want. You feel scared. The door swings closed. 

The full moon shines, it’s full of delicious juice; you buy a purse, the dance is nice. The door opens And swings closed so quickly you don’t notice.

The sun comes out, you have swift breakfasts with your husband, who is still thin; you wash the dishes, you love your children, you read a book, you go to the movies. It rains moderately. 

The door swings open, you look in: why does this keep happening now? Is there a secret? The door swings closed. 

The snow falls, you clear the walk while breathing heavily; it’s not as easy as once. Your children telephone sometimes. The roof needs fixing. You keep yourself busy. The spring arrives.

The door swings open: it’s dark in there, with many steps going down. But what is that shining? Is it water? The door swings closed. The dog has died. This happened before. You got another; not this time though. Where is your husband? You gave up the garden. It became too much. At night there are blankets; nonetheless you are wakeful.

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