In every Paradise —
and there are many,
despite what you’ve been told —
there is a weathered door
or shabby gate
for letting in the things
that are alleged to be anathema
to Paradise.
It’s no mistake or oversight.
It’s part of the plan to make things
perfect there.
It’s not a Paradise unless
it takes into account
that human need for
energy expended against
threat, and
also offers comfort
for those residents who are not happy
unless some taint of the Other
is possible.
The existence of the door
is known to all,
and in the gambling dens of Paradise
there is always action, heavy action,
on the exact moment when the hinges
will creak. Breathless with anticipation,
the happiest people in the universe
always hover silently
around the monitors,
hoping for that sound.

August 25th, 2009 at 12:21 pm
For some reason this poem reminds me of Lisey’s Story, by Stephen King.
I like it.
August 25th, 2009 at 11:46 pm
Thanks, Ms A.