In a Doorway
Ann Folwell Stanford

At the foot of Guazapa, high in the mountains of El Salvador,
Lake Suchitlán spreads its storied fingers among pines
and yellow butterflies that ride the air like dancers.

Up here one can look down on hawks as they soar
over treetops, can see flame trees' red umbrellas
punctuating soft hills with exclamation.

In a doorway, a child of five stands barefoot, half in shadow,
half in light, on a threshold of stucco and wood.
He is soft against the harsh geometrics of his space.

Behind him a slit of dark, night's remnant,
as day yawns and opens its relucent gate,
pouring light on the still exhausted world.

Caught between dark and light, inside and out,
he doesn't move. Quiet, he watches day
unfold before him like an empty hand.

Too young to have seen war, he has eaten
from its plate of rotting leftovers, has watched its claw
continue to rake across souls of brothers, aunts.

The child's body has sensed rage's tight fist,
little bombs he cannot defuse, has heard them
explode over and over in voices of bitter men.

He has also known earth's treachery, has seen
a massive serpent heave and swell beneath the street,
crack it open, bring down walls, shatter glass.

But it is his mother's sorrow that follows him
everywhere, a bundle of sticks tied to his back.
He carries her silence as though it were half the sky.

In dreams, he sees his mother slough her sadness
like an old dress, open her arms and, with him, soar
above flame trees, beyond the light of Suchitlán.