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[9] Open The Door At night, a two year’s widow I wake and leave the bed Where my second husband sleeps I stand and peer through the small window Set in the door the former owners Painted gayly in green and red, Sometimes, I open the door. It’s not that I’m waiting For your ghost, exactly, Or even remembering how often I waited past midnight for the headlights of your car To pierce the darkness of the drive It’s not that I still expect you It’s not that. Sometimes, I open the door. In the Chinese poem The translator’s note tells us The hem of the woman’s skirt is wet Because she has been waiting A long time in the dew. I stand in my summer nightgown Or my thermal underwear Sometimes, I open the door It’s quiet out, on a quiet street My second husband turns in his sleep The bird you gave me, our daughter in her bed Sleep until first light What can I tell you— With you gone, there is both less and more. Sometimes, I open the door. ...

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