Front Door
by Lisa Lerma Weber

My front door was once cerulean,
an ocean that welcomed me.
But now it’s faded—the ocean bleeding
onto the mat that once depicted a key
but is now blank, as if in warning.
There is no way in and no way out—
not a portal but a trap.

I am in a life raft—
floating on an infinite sea
and while I am not drowning,
the sun is relentless,
and though water surrounds me,
I am delirious with thirst.

They say the suffering will soon be over
and we will all be set free,
but I see souls drowning all around me
and not enough life rafts
and what will freedom look like
once we reach its distant shores?

Sometimes I think it’s better to swim
than to float aimlessly—
to throw myself into the water
the way others have.
But I know the sharks lurk
in the darkness beneath.
I know they can rise without warning
from deceptively peaceful waters
and hurl themselves like storm clouds
into the clear blue sky.
I know how sharp their teeth
and how fatal their bite.

Blue was once my favorite color—
I could lose myself in its cool serenity.
But now, it reminds me of death,
of all those lost in this sea of uncertainty.

My front door was once cerulean,
and it was open.

weber 1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lisa Lerma Weber’s front door is in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, Headline Poetry, Mineral Lit, Mookychick, Vamp Cat, and others. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber.