Doors1 min read

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The trees are alive
with possums, mice, rats.
I’m sure of it.

Out on their night hunt, you tell me.
I shiver. You are still, at ease.

Doors, passages, you say,
they’re everywhere.

Where are we, I ask.

The darkness answers in your voice,
Are you sure we are?

I am quiet, used to your way
of explaining things.

Are you sure this isn’t death
and life is what happens after?

I’m not sure. Next to you,
I’m never sure of anything.

We say good–bye, your eyes human again,
not the oak–walled tunnels
I’ve traveled all evening.

Doors, I think.

Remember, you say, and I nod,
but I’ve already forgotten.

Alina Rios

Alina Rios

Alina Rios spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia, and now lives in Seattle, Washington with her 6–year old son and a ghost–cat. Her poetry has appeared in Rust & Moth, Neon, StarLine, and Camroc Press Review. Her fiction was shortlisted for the Gulliver Travel Grant and is forthcoming in Beorh Quarterly. To learn more or say hello, visit
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