The Bathroom Door

The bathroom door is basement black and locked.
I can see it from my bed. I wait and watch
the yellow slip of light beneath the door.
I know a secret, it winks to me.
When I can’t wait any longer,
I slide out of bed and tap on the door.
Daddy, I say, can I come in?

Daddy?

Just a minute, he says, but it’s not his voice.
I’m eight years old and I wet the bed.
It’s better than the forever hallway,
past the fire-breathing furnace
and up the freezy back porch stairs.

I’m nine, I’m ten, I’m eleven.
My mom is whispering and
tapping at the bathroom door.
Yellow light blurs into black as
I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
The light can’t keep the secret anymore.
I found it in the towels.
I needed a cape so I could save the world,
but the secret was hiding in the towels.

I’m twelve and there’s a hammer.
Let me in! my mom screams.
So help me, God, I’ll break this door down!
The yellow light holds it’s breath for the blow.
Give me the needles!
She’s hitting and crying and hitting.
You . . . promised . . .You
promised.

I should have kept the secret in the towels.
I could have saved my daddy.

I’m fourteen and there’s a hole in the bathroom door.
The doorknob is gone. My daddy is gone.
We stuff the hole with paper and hope
no one comes in.